Malcolm's Farewell to Arms
by navigatio
Summary: Sequel to Castaways. With T'Pol dead, Malcolm is left to deal with their baby alone. He's not sure he's up to the challenge. Chapter 7 and epilogue added. Complete!
1. Goodbye Already

Disclaimer: Not mine blah blah blah not making any money blah blah blah don't sue me blah blah blah. "A Farewell to Arms" is by Ernest Hemingway, and is worth a read, if you're in the mood for something depressing. The Blue and Brown Books are by Wittgenstein, and are recommended if you are in the mood for something confusing :-)  
  
Warning: Character Death. Very sad fic. Please don't write me reviews telling me how depressing it is. Believe me, I know.  
  
Author's note: This is a sequel to Castaways, and it will probably make a lot more sense if you read that one first. The first chapter begins later in the same night as the end of Castaways. This is another Reed/T'Pol fic.  
  
Author's note 2: This story is somewhat AU, as I don't intend to put everything back the way I found it. Contains a spoiler for "Breaking the Ice".  
  
Author's note 3: See no "Stigma," hear no "Stigma," speak no "Stigma."  
  
++  
  
Malcolm's Farewell to Arms  
  
Chapter 1: Goodbye already  
  
~~~~~~~~~  
  
Water again. Cloudy because his thrashing has stirred up the sediment at the bottom of the lake. He pops up to the surface and gets a glimpse of her before his head goes under again. Where is the shuttle? It must have sunk already. He fights his way to the surface, arms flailing, although he can swim better than this, and sees her, a long way off, beckoning to him. He calls her name, to tell her he can't make it, but his voice is carried away by the wind. She turns and continues swimming toward shore, barely visible in the distance.  
  
He slips below the surface again, and when he pops back up, lungs bursting, the view has changed. There are people all around. Boys with sunburned faces and wet hair plastered to their foreheads, laughing at him. His ears burn with shame. He hears someone calling his name, from a distance.  
  
"Malcolm!"  
  
A figure is swimming toward him, not her, someone else. As the figure gets closer he can make out the gray hair, the strong arms knifing through the water. His father.  
  
"Malcolm!"  
  
His father is closer now, and Malcolm can see disgust and contempt mingled with embarrassment on his face. Without a word he wraps one arm roughly around Malcolm's neck and begins to tow him toward the shore. Malcolm struggles feebly against the arm which he believes is trying to drown him.  
  
"Malcolm!"  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Malcolm woke with a stifled cry and sat up, gasping for breath. It took his mind a moment to process the fact that he was in his quarters, safe and dry, although still lying on top of his covers, wearing the sweatpants he had put on when T'Pol had arrived the previous night. T'Pol was gone, of course.  
  
When the doorchime sounded, Malcolm nearly jumped out of his skin. Before he could react, T'Pol's voice came over the comm. "Malcolm! Please respond."  
  
Malcolm stumbled across his quarters and pressed the release for the door, without giving himself time to think about the condition of his sleep- rumpled clothes, his mussed hair, or unshaven face. T'Pol stood in the doorway staring at him with an expression akin to shock on her face.  
  
"What--what do you want?" he managed after a moment.  
  
"You had a dream."  
  
"What?"  
  
"A dream about drowning."  
  
Malcolm blinked at her in confusion. "How did you--how--?"  
  
"I had the same dream. May I come in?"  
  
"Yes, of course." He stepped back and let her walk around him to the bed, where she sat on the disheveled covers.  
  
Malcolm crossed his arms. "You had the same dream?"  
  
"Yes. In my dream, I swam away and left you to drown."  
  
"Oh," he said in a small voice. "That sounds like it."  
  
T'Pol nodded in confirmation. "It appears the dissolution ritual was not successful."  
  
"But I thought--I mean, it felt successful. I don't feel like I'm falling apart anymore."  
  
"Nevertheless, a bond apparently still remains, strong enough for your dreams to be transferred to me."  
  
"So, what do we do about it?"  
  
"I am willing to attempt the ritual again."  
  
Malcolm sighed. "Must we? It was hard enough the first time."  
  
"It is the only way."  
  
"All right, fine." He pushed back his hair, which was falling in his eyes again (must remember to get that cut, he told himself) and sat awkwardly on the bed beside her. Her spicy scent swirled around him, at the same time calming and arousing him. When she raised her first two fingers, he mirrored her movement without even thinking about it. It felt completely natural now, not like the first time.  
  
As soon as their fingers touched, he felt the now-familiar brush of her mind wash over him, like coming home after a long absence. Despite his attempts to resist, he found himself giving in to her, relaxing and opening his mind to her gentle probing.  
  
++  
  
Archer strummed his fingers on the briefing room table as his eyes flicked again to the chronometer on the wall. Ten minutes late already. This wasn't like either Lieutenant Reed or Sub-Commander T'Pol. He scanned the table thoughtfully while he continued to strum his fingers. Mayweather looked bored. Hoshi was inspecting her fingernails, Trip. . .  
  
Something drew Archer's eyes back to Trip's face, to examine it more closely. Trip looked. . . embarrassed, was probably the right word for it. Maybe nervous.  
  
Chewing the inside of his lip, with his eyes still locked on Trip's face, Archer thumbed the comm. to call T'Pol's quarters. "Archer to T'Pol," he said, narrowing his eyes at how Trip shifted his weight in his chair when there was no response. The engineer appeared to be fascinated with the lithograph of the space shuttle Enterprise on the wall.  
  
Frowning, Archer cut the connection and hailed Reed's quarters instead. The response was a little delayed, and sounded sleepy.  
  
"Lieutenant Reed, you were due for a briefing twelve minutes ago."  
  
The sound of rustling was transmitted through the comm., and then water running in the background. "I'm sorry, sir. I've overslept. Be there momentarily."  
  
"All right, Lieutenant. Perhaps you could find Sub-Commander T'Pol on your way? She's late too, and she's not in her quarters."  
  
"I--I'll do my best, Captain. Reed out."  
  
As Archer thumbed the button to close the link, his eyes roved to Trip's face again. His cheeks had definitely reddened. Trip was hiding something, and Archer was determined to find out what it was.  
  
Reed arrived not five minutes later, slightly out-of-breath like he had been running. His hair looked presentable, although somewhat less kempt than usual. Archer was slightly irritated to notice that he still hadn't gotten it cut. T'Pol arrived shortly thereafter, sliding into her seat with a minute nod, as if nothing were amiss.  
  
Archer decided not to push the issue, and started the briefing without comment.  
  
++  
  
After the briefing was over, Archer dismissed everyone, and then followed his dismissal up with, "Trip, could you stay a minute?"  
  
When everyone had filed out, leaving the two of them alone in the room, Archer folded his arms and fixed Trip with his patented glare, the one that said, "spill it." It had never failed before. Trip always broke wide open within five seconds of being hit with the glare.  
  
Trip was carefully avoiding eye contact. "What do you need, Cap'n?" he asked with his gaze still fixed on the lithograph.  
  
"Come on, Trip. You know something. Let's hear it."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about. . ."  
  
"Trip. Trip." Archer circled the table and put his hands firmly on the engineer's shoulders. "Tell me. You know you'll feel better."  
  
Trip squirmed under his hands. "I feel fine. Like I said. . ."  
  
Archer let his hands tighten, just a fraction. Trip stopped squirming. "It's about Malcolm, isn't it? What's going on?"  
  
Trip groaned and pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. "I can't tell ya, Cap'n."  
  
"Or is it about T'Pol?"  
  
"Cap'n, please. . ."  
  
"Or Malcolm and T'Pol? Is that it? Is it about Malcolm and T'Pol?"  
  
The groan was louder this time. "I didn't say that. Please. . ."  
  
"All right, all right. You can go." Archer released Trip's shoulders and the engineer scooted out of the briefing room like he had just heard the recess bell. With stomach clenched from a stab of jealousy, Archer folded his arms across his chest again as he watched him go. Malcolm and T'Pol, huh?  
  
++  
  
When T'Pol showed up at his quarters that evening, Malcolm was already pretty sure what she was going to say. He had been expecting it all day, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but she had been avoiding him, which he also should have known to expect.  
  
She stood in the open doorway of his again-immaculate quarters, with her lips pressed together in a tight line.  
  
"We've got to stop meeting like this," he said lightly, in an inappropriate attempt at humor, because he could feel the anger seeping through her emotional barriers. He had become aware, over the past few weeks, that it wasn't that she didn't have emotions. She did. She was just really good at hiding them. Sometimes, he got a thrill of excitement knowing that he had been the one to break through those barriers and discover the real T'Pol hiding underneath. Sometimes, like now, it scared the shit out of him.  
  
"Would you prefer to have this discussion elsewhere?" she deadpanned.  
  
"No, no. Here is fine. I was only joking."  
  
"I see."  
  
"Please, come in. Would you like some tea?"  
  
"No, thank you."  
  
"Oh," he said, disappointed. "Well, do you mind if I have some?"  
  
"You may do as you wish."  
  
"Great," he muttered under his breath, moving to the teapot and setting out a cup.  
  
"I do not expect to remain here long enough to drink a cup of tea."  
  
His hands stilled, his fingers tightening around the cup. This was it. This was really it. Again. He carefully pried his fingers away from the cup and turned to face her.  
  
"All right, then, shoot."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Shoot. Say what you want to say. Get it over with. The suspense is killing me."  
  
T'Pol's shoulders straightened, her hands locked behind her back. "Our relationship is over."  
  
Malcolm could feel his ears heating up. "That's what I thought last night, until you--" He trailed off, heart pounding at the memories.  
  
"Until I what?"  
  
"Until you came to my quarters last night and practically climbed into my bed!"  
  
"I seem to recall that you initiated that encounter," she rejoined, a little heated now.  
  
"What are you talking about? I agreed we should try the ritual again. I was ready to break it off."  
  
"I am inexperienced in the mating bond and its dissolution. You took advantage of that inexperience."  
  
"What?!" he exploded. "You say that you're inexperienced? Well, I have no experience in this sort of thing whatsoever. I was simply following your lead!"  
  
"You ended up taking the lead, Lieutenant."  
  
"I did no such thing!" he exclaimed angrily. "I only did what you wanted. You were in control."  
  
There was a momentary pause, during which T'Pol closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Malcolm could see the effort she was putting into trying to control her emotions.  
  
"It does not matter who initiated the encounter, Lieutenant," she said finally, her voice tightly controlled again. "It only matters that it does not happen again."  
  
Her flat voice and expressionless face only made Malcolm angrier. "Fine!"  
  
"Fine."  
  
"If that's what you want."  
  
"It is."  
  
Malcolm took in a shaky breath in response to the finality in her tone. It was over. It was actually, truly over this time. Accept it and move on, he told himself firmly. "Do we--do we have to do the ritual again?"  
  
"I do not believe it will be successful."  
  
"I see. You're probably right, considering what happened the last time we tried it."  
  
T'Pol's chin tipped up, and her eyes softened slightly. "This may be difficult."  
  
"I know," he said quickly. "Believe me, I know."  
  
"But it is necessary."  
  
His eyes flicked away. "Yes, of course. I know."  
  
"Very well. I have arranged our schedules so our duty shifts do not coincide for the next two weeks."  
  
"Oh, all right."  
  
"It would be best if we avoided all contact for at least that length of time."  
  
"You're probably right."  
  
"Goodbye, Lieutenant."  
  
"Goodbye, Sub-Commander." He looked back just in time to see the door sliding shut. She was already gone.  
  
++  
  
Once again T'Pol found herself hesitating outside the door to sickbay. Although it had been over a week since she had last seen Lieutenant Reed, her emotional symptoms had not resolved as she had hoped. She no longer felt a deep connection and longing, but her emotional condition was not normal, either, or even under control.  
  
T'Pol knew that it was highly unlikely that she was suffering from a physical condition that could be treated by the doctor. However, perhaps he could render some advice that would be helpful. At the very least, he could treat the headache that had plagued her for the last several days.  
  
When she entered sickbay, T'Pol again found the doctor busy feeding his menagerie, his arms halfway inside a glass tank filled with greenery. He pulled his arms free and set the lid in place before greeting her.  
  
"Sub-Commander, what can I do for you today?"  
  
"I would like you to examine me."  
  
"Of course. Have a seat on the exam table." Phlox ran his hands under the sanitizer and picked up a scanner. "Are your symptoms similar to your previous visit."  
  
T'Pol was silent for a moment, until Phlox said, "Sub-Commander?"  
  
"Yes, my symptoms are similar. In addition, I have developed a headache which is not responsive to meditation."  
  
"Ah." Phlox fiddled with the dials on the scanner and aimed it at T'Pol, starting with her head. "Ah." He frowned at the screen, pressed a control which caused the device to chirp, and repeated the scan. "Ah," he said again, eyebrows climbing.  
  
++  
  
Continued soon . . . maybe even tomorrow. 


	2. Nothing ever happens to the brave

(This chapter and the next one get a little "talky." Of course, there's a reason for that, as there are some things the characters need to talk about. I promise some action by the end of chapter four.)  
  
Chapter 2: Nothing ever happens to the brave  
  
Malcolm tugged off his boots and lined them up carefully in his closet, laces tucked neatly inside. He was finally off-duty after a very trying day of weapons simulations that didn't quite go off as planned, and he was looking forward to a little quiet time, just him and Wittgenstein. He was halfway through the Blue Book, and it was getting quite interesting, although somewhat difficult to follow. If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was reading it for T'Pol, as it was the closest he could get to a treatise on logical thinking.  
  
He took the book from its place on the nightstand and flopped down on the bed without bothering to change his clothes, simply unzipping his coverall partway to relieve the tightness around his neck. Malcolm would not ordinarily have chosen a book like this, but he had discovered to his surprise that he found it fascinating.  
  
He had just finished the first paragraph of chapter three when the comm. sounded. With a sigh, he rested the book on his chest and reached up over his head to answer the hail.  
  
"Reed here."  
  
"Lieutenant Reed," came T'Pol's voice, startling him a little. He hadn't seen nor spoken to her for over a week. "Please report to my quarters."  
  
"What is this regarding?" he asked warily.  
  
"I will inform you when you arrive."  
  
"On my way. Reed out." Malcolm returned the bookmark to its place and replaced the book on the nightstand, wondering as he did so what T'Pol could want to talk to him about. She had certainly made it clear that their relationship, if it could even be called that, was over, with no hope of resurrection. Perhaps it was work related, but if so, why contact him when they were both off-duty? And why have him come to her quarters?  
  
Remembering suddenly that he had missed a haircut appointment earlier that day, Malcolm took a quick peek in the mirror and smoothed out his overgrown hair and straightened his collar before heading out the door. I'm not trying to impress her, he told himself. An officer always looks his best, he heard his father's voice reminding him sternly, and his mouth fell into a grim line as he very deliberately turned away from the mirror.  
  
When he reached T'Pol's quarters, Malcolm straightened his collar again before pressing the buzzer. The second his finger left the button, he heard her voice, flat and toneless, over the comm. "Come."  
  
The door slid open and Malcolm looked around in surprise. The lights were muted and at least a dozen meditation candles were lit and placed around the room in a well-ordered pattern. There was a hint of spice in the air, one that Malcolm remembered well from their last intimate encounter. His breath caught a little at the memories that were evoked by the scent.  
  
T'Pol herself was seated serenely on a cushion in the middle of the floor, spine straight, legs folded, hands resting lightly on her knees. "Be seated, Lieutenant," she said in a neutral voice, while gesturing at another cushion directly across hers.  
  
Malcolm cautiously stepped around a candle and approached the indicated spot, but did not sit. "Why have you called me here?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as neutral as hers.  
  
"I will tell you presently. Please be seated."  
  
"First I want to know what this is about. The last time we talked you accused me of taking advantage of you." He knew that comment sounded sarcastic, but he couldn't help it. He didn't want to be hurt again.  
  
T'Pol dropped her eyes, but not before Malcolm had caught a glimpse of emotion in them, something that looked an awful lot like anxiety. He bit his lip and sat cross-legged on the cushion, resting his hands on his knees in conscious imitation of her posture.  
  
"All right, I'm seated," he said in a softer tone.  
  
One minute passed, then another, with T'Pol staring into the flame of the candle in front of her. Malcolm shifted on the cushion unconsciously. He had almost decided that she had forgotten he was there, when she spoke abruptly.  
  
"I need to inform you of a . . . situation."  
  
"What situation?"  
  
To Malcolm's surprise, T'Pol now shifted uncomfortably on her cushion. "This situation concerns you."  
  
Malcolm waited silently. It was nearly a minute before she finally tore her eyes from the flame and spoke again, hurriedly. "I apologize. I should not have bothered you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You may go." She moved as if to stand, but he caught her hand and she remained seated.  
  
"No, I'm not leaving. What did you need to tell me?"  
  
"It is not important."  
  
"It must have been important. Otherwise you wouldn't have called me. We're not supposed to be talking to each other, remember? Now what is it?"  
  
"I am. . ."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I am pregnant."  
  
Malcolm released her hand and sprang to his feet. He was barely breathing from the wave of terror that swept over him. It felt like there was a thick band of pressure around his chest, and he couldn't get any air.  
  
T'Pol rose too, and after a moment she said quietly, "Malcolm?"  
  
He put up a hand to stop her. He needed to think, and he couldn't think when someone was talking. She seemed to understand that, because she fell silent and waited patiently for him to recover.  
  
His mind raced, but all he could think of were stupid questions, too obvious to even ask. What? She had already answered that. How? Of course he knew how. Who? That was a good one.  
  
"Are you--are you sure I'm the father?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how insulting the question was, and wished he could take it back.  
  
"There is no one else." She sounded almost amused.  
  
"But I thought you--I mean, don't you--what about birth control?"  
  
"The Vulcan Science Directorate considers birth control unnecessary."  
  
"Well, obviously it was necessary!"  
  
"In retrospect, yes."  
  
There was silence for another moment as Malcolm collected his thoughts, and one more question occurred to him.  
  
"What do you--what do you plan to do?"  
  
"I cannot end a life."  
  
Malcolm was taken aback a little at her response. "It is legal, you know."  
  
"I am aware of the laws, both on my planet and yours. Whether it is legal or illegal is irrelevant to me. My choice has nothing to do with the legality of the issue."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Do you wish me to abort this pregnancy?"  
  
"No, no, I didn't say that. It's your decision."  
  
"Indeed, the decision is mine, and I have made it. I ask nothing from you."  
  
"Wait a minute. You can't expect me just to walk away. I'm willing to take responsibility for--for--" He couldn't quite bring himself to say, 'my child.' "for the child."  
  
"That is unnecessary."  
  
"It's the honorable thing to do. I'm not just going to bang you up and walk away," he said indignantly.  
  
"What do you intend to do?"  
  
"Well. . . do you want to get married?" When T'Pol said nothing in response, Malcolm continued nervously, "I mean, I know you don't love me, but Vulcans don't marry for love anyway, do they?"  
  
"Humans do," T'Pol said quietly.  
  
"T'Pol, I'm serious. Do you want to get married?"  
  
T'Pol stared at him for several seconds with a very severe expression on her face. "That would not be wise."  
  
"But why not? I'm not going to let you just take the child--my child--and leave."  
  
"You have very little say in the matter."  
  
"Yes I do! I have as much right to decide what happens with our child as you do."  
  
"A moment ago you said the decision was mine."  
  
"Yes, but--I meant--Damnit, T'Pol!"  
  
"I do not intend to leave, at least not right away. But I do not wish to marry you simply because our short-lived relationship happened to produce an offspring."  
  
"Then--what do you intend to do? We can't raise a child on Enterprise . . . can we?"  
  
"I have made no decisions as of yet. Can we discuss this at another time? I have a headache."  
  
Malcolm's anger vanished, replaced by confusion and increasing anxiety. "Can I get you a pillow or--or an analgesic?"  
  
T'Pol shook her head. "I need no assistance." She looked pointedly at the door.  
  
"Of course, I'm sorry. I'll--I'll go."  
  
When she said nothing, he turned and opened the door. "We'll talk later, right?"  
  
"If you wish."  
  
After the door slid shut, Malcolm stood for several seconds, staring at the smooth, gray metal, half-expecting that at any moment T'Pol would come out and say something along the lines of "April fool!" and tell him it had all been a joke.  
  
When the door stubbornly stayed shut, Malcolm turned and shuffled down the corridor toward his own quarters. Pregnant! It couldn't be! It was impossible. Well, not technically impossible, based on what they had done, but--impossible!! He wasn't ready to be a father, and didn't think he ever would be. He had no idea how fathers were supposed to behave. His only role model in that arena was one he had absolutely no desire to imitate in any respect.  
  
Malcolm began to feel sick to his stomach, thinking of the possibility of treating his son like he had been treated. He would never, could never do that, could he? They said it ran in families, as if it were genetic. The child repeats the patterns of the parents, and so on, over and over, with no hope of escape.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
He is in a very small, dark space, seated on the hard floor with his knees drawn up. He can feel lumps under his thighs. Shoes, he thinks. A wool coat hangs in front of his face, tickles his nose. He is aware that the floor is swaying back and forth, to and fro. The tiny coat closet on his father's sailboat.  
  
It is very dark, and he is afraid. He wishes he could open the door, but even though it is unlocked, he is too afraid to open it. He knows the consequences for disobedience.  
  
His father was so angry. Malcolm has never seen his father that angry before. The look of rage is burned into Malcolm's mind. Malcolm's apologies were ignored. His father's words run through his head, over and over. He can't shut them out. "You humiliated me. I'm ashamed to call you my son."  
  
Now, despite his fear, he is glad that he was banished to the closet. At least here it might be safe. He touches his cheek and feels the bruise that raises the skin. He knows there are more, on his arms and legs, on his back. His father rarely strikes him on the face--it leads to too many questions from teachers. Malcolm wonders how he will explain this one on Monday.  
  
He hears a sound and freezes. Please not again. Please, please, please, not again.  
  
The closet door swings open noiselessly.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The next morning, Malcolm stood at his station on the bridge, surreptitiously watching T'Pol out of the corner of his eye while he set up yet another weapons simulation. He had little hope that today's simulations would work out any better than yesterday's, but he slogged on anyway.  
  
He had slept poorly, and he knew his face showed it, with a pastier than usual complexion offsetting dark circles under his eyes. He still hadn't worked in a haircut, and his bangs continually fell into his eyes while he worked. He pushed them back distractedly, trying to keep focused on the matter at hand, and not let himself start thinking about that other situation, the one that had caused his lack of sleep.  
  
The captain's voice interrupted his concentration. "Ready for another test, Lieutenant?"  
  
"Yes, Captain." He thumbed the comm. "Reed to Filsen. Prepare to fire on my command."  
  
"Aye, sir," came the competent, no-nonsense voice of Ensign Filsen, standing by in the armory.  
  
"Fire."  
  
A brief bolt of light flashed from the phase cannon, and promptly fizzled. "Damn!" Malcolm slammed his palm on his console, which hurt, and then looked up to discover everyone was watching him, including T'Pol. Her eyebrows were drawn downward in an expression of disapproval.  
  
"What?!" he exploded at her.  
  
Her eyebrows cocked upwards. "I said nothing."  
  
"You didn't have to say anything. That look says it all."  
  
T'Pol regarded him smugly. "I suggest you attempt to control your emotional reaction. Physical outbursts will only destroy equipment and further delay the successful completion of these tests."  
  
"I suggest you mind your own business!" Malcolm snapped back. He knew the back of his neck was turning red, he could feel the heat rising up to his scalp and over his cheeks.  
  
"Lieutenant Reed!" came the captain's stern voice from behind him. "What is--"  
  
T'Pol interrupted him, her voice cranked up a notch. "Your behavior is childish and unacceptable, Lieutenant! I suggest you control yourself or you will be relieved of duty immediately!"  
  
"Whoa, there," Archer interjected. "No one's being relieved of duty.".  
  
"Filsen to Reed," came the no-nonsense voice over the comm. before Malcolm could think of a response to T'Pol's comment. He jabbed his forefinger at the control.  
  
"Reed here," he said tightly.  
  
"I think we blew a few relays on that one, sir."  
  
"Well, what are you waiting for? Get started fixing them," Malcolm snapped.  
  
"Yes, sir. Filsen out."  
  
Immediately following Filsen's sign-off, the comm. sounded again. "Tucker to bridge," came Trip's harried voice.  
  
"Archer here."  
  
"What are you guys doin' up there? We just blew out about a dozen relays. Warp and impulse are both off-line."  
  
Malcolm swore just loudly enough for everyone on the bridge to hear. "Must have been the weapons' testing. We're finished for today," the captain responded.  
  
A sigh was transmitted over the comm. "We'll get on the repairs. We're gonna hafta reroute power around the blown relays, so it'll be at least an hour before you get your engines back. Tucker out."  
  
Malcolm heard the captain's footsteps behind him. "Lieutenant, Sub- Commander, my ready room, please. Ensign Sato, please contact Ensign Filsen and tell her we won't be running any more weapons tests today."  
  
"Aye, sir." Hoshi sounded a little flustered as she turned back to her station. Malcolm kept his head down so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye.  
  
"Let's go, people." Archer led the way through the ready room door, with T'Pol on his heels and Malcolm trailing after, gaze fixed on his shoes.  
  
When the door had closed behind them, Archer dropped into one of the chairs and gestured for T'Pol and Malcolm to do the same. Malcolm sat, hesitantly, but T'Pol simply folded her hands behind her back.  
  
"I prefer to stand," she said harshly. Archer shrugged.  
  
"So, who wants to tell me what the problem is?"  
  
"Sir?" Malcolm made the title a question, hoping his voice didn't betray him. The captain couldn't know, could he? Malcolm knew he hadn't told Archer anything, and he didn't think T'Pol would tell, so that left. . .  
  
"I found out from Trip that there was something going on, so you might as well talk."  
  
Trip! Of course! The man couldn't keep his mouth shut if it were plasma- welded, Malcolm fumed silently. In fact, maybe a little welding would be a good thing. Teach him a much-needed lesson.  
  
The silence stretched out. Malcolm shifted in his chair uncomfortably.  
  
"Malcolm?"  
  
Malcolm opened his mouth and closed it again, dropping his eyes to the table.  
  
"T'Pol?"  
  
"Lieutenant Reed and I were involved in a relationship."  
  
Malcolm turned and stared at her in shock. "It would be impossible to keep the matter secret. Therefore it is logical to be truthful," she said simply.  
  
"You said, 'were'. Does that mean the relationship is over?" Archer asked.  
  
"Yes, it's over," Malcolm mumbled.  
  
"Then why would it be impossible to keep it secret?"  
  
Malcolm shot T'Pol a look of pure terror at what he knew would be the next words out of her mouth.  
  
"Because our relationship has resulted in a pregnancy."  
  
Archer made a surprised noise, and then coughed in an obvious attempt to cover his shock. He leaned back in his chair with a very deliberate thoughtful expression, but then just as quickly and awkwardly leaned forward resting his elbows on his desk. Malcolm could see his adam's apple jump up and down in his throat as he swallowed convulsively. "I see. When- -when did this happen?"  
  
"The embryo is approximately nine days gestation."  
  
"I see--uh--" There was a pause while Archer rubbed his face with both his hands, and Malcolm realized that at that moment the captain would much rather have been fighting the Suliban than having this conversation. Malcolm decided he couldn't agree more. "What--uh--have you made any plans? I mean--do you plan to get married, or--"  
  
Malcolm looked to T'Pol, who spoke quickly, "We do not intend to be married. We have made no decisions at this time."  
  
"Well, I suppose you'll have to make some decisions soon," Archer said with a thoughtful expression. "You're right about this being a secret that's impossible to keep. Does anyone else know?"  
  
"Obviously Dr. Phlox is aware of my condition. I have informed no one other than Malcolm."  
  
Malcolm saw Archer grin a little, probably at T'Pol's use of his first name, and then both he and T'Pol were looking at him with their eyebrows raised.  
  
"I haven't told anyone," he said quickly in answer to their unspoken question.  
  
"All right, then," Archer said. "Let's keep it amongst ourselves for now. You two talk about it, and let me know when you come to some sort of a decision. In the meantime, T'Pol, how are you feeling?"  
  
"My condition is bearable."  
  
Archer gave a little laugh. "Well, I suppose that's the best you can hope for. Make sure to go to all of your appointments with Phlox."  
  
"I will."  
  
"Sub-Commander, you're dismissed." Malcolm started to stand up to leave as well, but Archer shook his head slightly. T'Pol gave a brief nod and walked out, hands still clasped tightly behind her back. Archer was silent until the door had closed behind her, then he turned to Malcolm, that little grin playing on his lips.  
  
"So--Malcolm."  
  
Malcolm waited for a moment, sure the captain was going to say more, but Archer just shook his head ruefully and the grin widened.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"How did you do it?"  
  
"Do what, sir?" Malcolm asked, although he already knew what Archer was talking about, and didn't like it.  
  
"You know what I mean. Are you all right? You look a little-- jumpy."  
  
"I'm doing as well as can be expected, for a man who has recently found out he is unexpectedly going to be a father."  
  
"Not planning on running away or anything, are you?"  
  
"No Sir!" Malcolm answered indignantly. "I'll do the honorable thing. I don't plan to leave her to deal with this--this situation alone."  
  
"She didn't want to get married, huh?"  
  
"What makes you think it was her decision?"  
  
"Come on, Malcolm. I saw your expression when I asked if you were going to get married. You wanted to, she didn't. I'm right, aren't I?"  
  
Malcolm's shoulders slumped and he nodded miserably, defeated by the captain's logic.  
  
Archer perched on the front of his desk, crossed his ankles, and folded his arms. "Look, Malcolm, if you want a relationship with T'Pol, you're going to have to pursue it, because she won't."  
  
"But what about fraternization rules?"  
  
"I know you don't approve of the way I run my ship, Malcolm, but I try to be realistic. On a mission of this length, some violations of the anti- fraternization rules are bound to occur. As your captain I can't officially encourage fraternization. However, as your friend . . . Why don't you at least give it a shot?"  
  
"I've already tried. She doesn't want me, Captain," Malcolm said dejectedly.  
  
"You asked her what, once?"  
  
Malcolm nodded again.  
  
"Give her some time to think about it, then try again. Maybe she'll come around."  
  
"I don't intend to force her to marry me."  
  
"That's not what I'm suggesting, Malcolm. Just persist a little. Remember, she's been hit with a bit of a surprise too. She's bound to be a little rattled."  
  
Malcolm almost said, "Vulcans don't get rattled," but realized that that wasn't true. He had had a glimpse into T'Pol's soul, and he knew, probably better than anyone else, that she was capable of strong emotions. She did indeed get rattled, she was just very good at covering it up.  
  
"I'll--I'll think about it, but I doubt it will work."  
  
Archer clapped him on the back. "It's worth a try, right? All right, you're dismissed."  
  
Malcolm's shoulders came back up and he snapped to attention as he was reminded that he was talking to his captain, not just a friend. "Sir," he said shortly, pivoted on his heel, and walked out, with his mind on what the captain had said. 


	3. Wittgenstein vs Surak

Chapter 3: Wittgenstein vs. Surak  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Water. Clean, light blue, dappled with sunlight. A swimming pool. Laughing kids, bouncing up and down in the water, tossing a beach ball to each other.  
  
He sits on the edge of the pool in the hot sun, with his feet dangling in the cool water. His little sister, four years old, complete with dripping brown pigtails and orange waterwings, waves at him excitedly from the deep end of the pool.  
  
"Malcolm, come swim with me!"  
  
He shakes his head mutely and looks away. When he looks back, his sister is gone. He can see a shadow beneath the surface, an irregular blob of orange and brown. Her waterwings.  
  
"Maddie!!" he screams, but his voice is swallowed up by the splashing of the water. He leaps to his feet and runs along the side of the pool, screaming her name, screaming for help. The laughing kids ignore him. He finds his father and pulls on his sleeve, but he pushes him away. "Go play, Malcolm."  
  
"But Sir. . ."  
  
"I said, go!" his father repeats, more harshly, and pushes him between the shoulderblades, hard, toward the pool.  
  
He scans the water desperately, but can no longer see the orange and brown shadow.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Two weeks later, Malcolm sat cross-legged on his bed, head in hands, Wittgenstein forgotten beside him, and thought back to what the captain had said. T'Pol had barely said one word to him since she had given him the news, and Malcolm was beginning to wonder if she ever intended to speak to him again. His every attempt to engage her in conversation had been met with polite rebuff, which Malcolm was finding increasingly painful.  
  
The more Malcolm thought about the captain's words, the more he realized that he did indeed want a relationship with T'Pol. He was surprised to discover just how deep his feelings ran. Without her his life seemed empty and meaningless.  
  
Finally he huffed in frustration and ran his hand through his messy hair, remembering as he did so that he had missed another haircut appointment yesterday. The hair hanging in his eyes was beginning to irritate him, and he made up his mind to schedule another appointment with Ensign Schneider for the next day.  
  
It occurred to him that the missed appointments were another indicator of how distracted he was. Ordinarily he was obsessively detailed and punctual, one trait that his father had managed to pass on to him.  
  
"This is ridiculous," he said out loud to the unhearing walls. "I'm sitting here pining away and doing nothing about it. What have I got to lose? She'll either say no, in which case my situation won't have changed, or she'll say yes, in which case my situation will improve." He stood up from his desk chair and straightened his collar, brushing the hair back from his eyes again. "I'll do it."  
  
The insensate walls made no response.  
  
++  
  
Malcolm made a quick stop by the botany lab on his way to T'Pol's quarters, and managed to talk Lieutenant Wallis out of some of his precious flowers. The man had insisted on giving him a detailed lecture on how to care for the flowers, which Malcolm only half-listened to while he thought through what he was going to say to T'Pol. Fortunately, Wallis didn't ask him what he planned to do with the flowers.  
  
Once he reached her door, he straightened his collar again and ran his fingers through his hair to try to arrange the overgrown locks into some semblance of neatness. Finally he pushed the doorchime.  
  
There was a longer than usual pause before the door slid open. T'Pol, dressed in soft flowing pants and a tanktop, stared at him wordlessly.  
  
"T'Pol, may I come in?"  
  
"Why are you here?"  
  
"I--we--we need to talk--about--about--" he stammered, words deserting him just when he needed them most.  
  
"Come in," she said coolly, stepping back from the door and allowing him to enter.  
  
"I brought these for you." He held out the flowers, stupidly.  
  
She took them and inspected them as if she didn't know what they were. "Why?"  
  
"Because--because I miss you." The words tumbled out without any forethought or organization. "When we were stranded, we spent every waking moment together. And now I never see you. I just wanted to see you and--"  
  
She continued to hold the flowers and stare at him. "Yes? You wanted to see me and--what?"  
  
Malcolm took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing. "Look, I've done a lot of thinking, and I've tried to think logically, and here is how I see the situation: You are going to need help with the baby. I'm willing to do whatever you want me to. The only way we are going to be able to stay together and raise this child is for us to--to--be together. In a long-term relationship."  
  
"You are suggesting an intimate relationship."  
  
"Y--yes, that's right. It's only logical."  
  
Without responding, T'Pol crossed to the head, filled a glass with water, and began to arrange the flowers. After a moment, Malcolm followed her.  
  
"I--I don't expect an answer right away. You can think about it for a while."  
  
She silently continued her task.  
  
Malcolm bit his lip. "I'll--I'll go. We can talk about this later." He turned to leave, but her soft voice pulled him back.  
  
"I am not capable of loving you, not the way that you deserve." She spoke to the flowers, and did not look at him.  
  
"T'Pol, I don't care. I just want you to be with me."  
  
"Your father did not show love to you. You were hurt by that. I do not wish to hurt you as well."  
  
"It won't hurt me. I won't allow it to. What you just said proves that you care about me. Please, T'Pol--T'Pol, please look at me."  
  
She slowly turned her body in his direction, and after a moment her eyes came up to meet his. He held his breath until, with a tiny smile, she reached up and stroked the lock of hair back from his forehead.  
  
"Is that a yes?"  
  
Instead of answering, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his in a slow, gentle kiss; her fingers came up to entwine in the curls at the back of his neck. Deepening the kiss, he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her in against him. Her lips were soft and responsive against his, and he could feel the firm outline of her slim waist under his hand. He realized, not for the first time, that they were exactly the same height, so that they fit perfectly together.  
  
Almost timidly, Malcolm slipped his hand into her hair and ran his fingers up to the graceful pointed tip of her ear. She moaned softly against his mouth and pressed her body in closer to his, her fingers tightening in his hair. Wow, thought Malcolm in amazement, I should have tried that before.  
  
After a moment, not nearly long enough to Malcolm's mind, she broke the kiss and, with her fingers still entwined in his hair and his arm wrapped around her waist, she leaned away from him just enough to look into his eyes.  
  
"My answer is yes," she said so solemnly that Malcolm couldn't help but chuckle. The tiny smile quirked her lips again, just for an instant, and then it was gone.  
  
"I had deduced that already," he said, grinning and releasing her. His grin faded when he realized he hadn't actually asked her a question, and he had no idea exactly what she was saying yes to. "Er--Yes, what? What are you agreeing to?"  
  
She turned back to her task of preparing the flowers. "I agree to re-enter a personal relationship with you. Or rather, begin such a relationship, as none existed before. I will not attempt to disrupt the mating bond between us."  
  
Malcolm folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. "What about getting married?"  
  
"That is a human custom."  
  
"You must have something similar on Vulcan."  
  
"Yes. I am--not ready to make that step." She inserted the final stem in the makeshift vase and stepped around him to carry it to the desk. He followed.  
  
"Then--what? Would you like to share quarters?"  
  
She placed the flowers in the corner of her desk and looked around. "My quarters are not large enough for us both. Your quarters are smaller. Therefore it is logical for us each to keep our own residence."  
  
"Oh . . . all right."  
  
"We must inform others soon of the pregnancy. It will become obvious to all within a few weeks."  
  
"Were you thinking of a ship-wide announcement?"  
  
"That would be a misuse of Starfleet equipment."  
  
"I was joking."  
  
"I am aware of that fact."  
  
"Hmm. I suppose the best way to make sure everyone knows would be to simply tell Commander Tucker and ask him to keep it a secret."  
  
T'Pol turned her full attention on him suddenly. He took an involuntary half-step back at the intense expression on her face. "That is an unfair assessment. Commander Tucker is capable of keeping a secret."  
  
"You sound like you have personal knowledge of that fact," he responded playfully.  
  
"I do." T'Pol returned to the head to wash her hands.  
  
"Oh?" As Malcolm followed her, his grin morphed into a frown. "What secrets do you have with Trip?"  
  
"He inadvertently read a letter containing news of my impending wedding. He did not share the contents of the letter with anyone."  
  
"I didn't know you were going to get married," Malcolm said in confusion.  
  
"Exactly. Commander Tucker kept the information private, as I requested."  
  
"Tell me more about this wedding."  
  
"There was no wedding, obviously. We were betrothed as children. I broke off the engagement, partly due to Commander Tucker's advice."  
  
"Ah," Malcolm said when it was clear she wasn't going to elaborate. "Well, I'll have to tell him thanks."  
  
"I do not believe he gave his advice with you in mind."  
  
Malcolm's grin returned. "We still have the same problem. How are we going to let people know about this situation?"  
  
"The captain is already aware of the pregnancy. You may inform him that we have decided to resume our relationship."  
  
"And Trip. I think I should tell Trip. He already knows about us."  
  
"Very well. As for the rest of the crew, perhaps we should simply answer any questions as they are asked. My condition will become obvious as time progresses."  
  
"What about--the future? Have you decided where you want to live, what you want to do?"  
  
"I have not. It may be necessary for me to leave Enterprise."  
  
"Yes, I've thought of that."  
  
"If I left, would you join me?"  
  
Malcolm sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. "That's a difficult decision. Enterprise is the only place I've ever felt accepted. I feel like the crew here are my true family, and I don't know what I would do if I had to leave."  
  
She sat next to him on the bed, close but not touching. "Whatever decision we make will be painful."  
  
"I know that. But I also know that I want to be with you, and if that's not on Enterprise, so be it."  
  
She gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, then took a deep breath. "To come with me or not is your decision. I wish you to make a decision which will lead to your happiness."  
  
He looked into her eyes. "What will make me happy is to be with you."  
  
T'Pol continued to gaze at him with the same pensive expression. Finally she gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "I must meditate, to clear my mind in order to reason logically through all the options. Would you like to join me?"  
  
"Meditate with you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I thought it was a solitary thing."  
  
"Bondmates often meditate together."  
  
Malcolm's grin returned. "Bondmates. I like the sound of that."  
  
"Is that a yes?"  
  
His grin widened, despite his efforts to force his face into a solemn expression. "My answer is yes."  
  
T'Pol nodded slightly in acknowledgement and retrieved two pillows from the top of her closet. Malcolm took the one she offered him and sat on the floor, feeling a little self-conscious. She began to light the candles which were scattered throughout her quarters, and as Malcolm watched her his nervousness faded away.  
  
"How often do you meditate?"  
  
"Every day, morning and evening." She used a candle from a low table to light one on her desk.  
  
"Oh." He watched her in silence for a moment. "What do you think the baby will look like?"  
  
"It is impossible to predict."  
  
"Maybe she'll have blue eyes, like mine."  
  
"That is highly unlikely. Vulcan infants always have brown eyes, even at birth."  
  
"But she won't be fully Vulcan."  
  
"The Vulcan genes are likely to predominate. That has been the case with other Vulcan-alien hybrids."  
  
"You make it sound like a lab experiment."  
  
T'Pol paused in her work and turned her head to look at him. "I apologize," she said simply, and returned to her work.  
  
Malcolm grinned. "I hope it's a girl," he said. "Young T'Pol. She'd look just like you."  
  
"It is illogical to hope for one gender over another. The gender is already decided."  
  
Malcolm sighed. "You've never read, 'A Farewell to Arms,' have you?"  
  
"I have not. Is the situation similar?"  
  
"In some ways, but in the book, the mother and the baby both--well, never mind. It's not that similar."  
  
T'Pol lit the last candle, a tall pillar, and set it on the floor between them. "Why do you hope for a girl?" she asked as she settled herself onto her cushion.  
  
"Girls are simpler."  
  
"I see no basis for that statement." Her tone was mild, not reproving.  
  
"Boys are too complicated. There are too many expectations for a boy."  
  
"You are speaking from your own experiences."  
  
"I suppose so. I don't want to end up treating my son the way--the way my father treated me."  
  
"Your father treated you poorly." It was not a question, but a statement of fact. Malcolm stared at his hands.  
  
"Did he injure you?"  
  
"He didn't strike me--very often. It was mostly--intimidation, belittling, manipulation, constantly trying to control me."  
  
"That is why you left your parents' home, when you were seventeen?"  
  
Malcolm shook his head. "It wasn't entirely my choice. My father said--he told me to either join the Navy or leave his house and never come back. When I declined to join the Navy, I had no choice but to leave."  
  
"From what I have seen, you are very different from your father. There is no reason to expect that you will parent your child in the same way you were parented."  
  
"They say. . ."  
  
She raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.  
  
He shook his head. "It's not important. Show me how to meditate."  
  
She nodded. "Focus your attention on the flame."  
  
Malcolm fixed his eyes on the flickering flame and tried to maintain his attention on her voice. "Clear your mind," she said, but his mind was full of his father's face, stony and indifferent, and her soothing words were drowned out by his father's harsh voice reciting his failings.  
  
++  
  
Early the next morning, T'Pol was just toweling off her hair when the doorchime sounded. "Come," she called with a slight frown. She rarely had visitors to her quarters, and almost never early in the morning, when most of the others on Alpha shift were still sleeping.  
  
The door slid open and Malcolm stood in the entryway with a tray in both hands and a book under his arm. His hair, T'Pol noticed, had been returned to its usual military cut. He hesitated in the doorway. "May I come in?"  
  
T'Pol blinked at him and then quickly suppressed her expression of surprise. "Yes."  
  
"I've brought you breakfast," he said unnecessarily, as she could plainly see that the tray he carried was laden with food. "It's the most important meal of the day, you know." He set the tray down on the desk and beamed at her.  
  
"I am aware of the importance of breakfast." Despite herself, T'Pol wandered over to the tray and scanned the contents. Fresh fruit. Muffins. (her mouth began to water as she realized that she was indeed quite hungry.) Pancakes, which she had never tried. Something brown and sticky in a small bowl. "What is that?"  
  
"Peanut butter. Would you like to try some?"  
  
"Does one eat it with a spoon?"  
  
He chuckled. "I suppose you could, but I usually spread it on my pancakes."  
  
"I see," she said dubiously.  
  
"Here, sit down. I'll fix some for you. Would you like some fruit? How about a pear?"  
  
"That is acceptable. I will also try pancakes with peanut butter."  
  
"Coming right up."  
  
T'Pol sat primly on the bed and watched Malcolm work. The back of his neck was clean-shaven, and the skin there was whiter than the surrounding area, an artifact of the suntan he had received while they were stranded. T'Pol suppressed a tiny sigh and admitted to herself that she missed the curls. She wondered if his hair would still be soft to the touch, but decided that it most likely would not be, as it appeared he had used some sort of product that made the top stand up stiffly.  
  
When he turned toward her, holding a plate brimming with food, T'Pol reluctantly tore her eyes from his hair. He handed her first a napkin, and then the plate gingerly. "Here we are. I hope you like it," he said with an anxious smile.  
  
T'Pol cut herself a neat bite of pancakes and put it in her mouth. It was delicious. The slightly salty taste of the peanut butter combined quite well with the pancakes. "It is quite enjoyable," she said when her mouth was empty.  
  
"Good." He fixed a plate for himself and sat down at the desk. He had spread the peanut butter more thickly on his own pancakes, T'Pol noticed, and now he dug into them with relish.  
  
"I believe it is missing something, however," she said as she cut another, slightly larger bite. "Perhaps something sweet."  
  
"Mmm," he said as he swallowed a mouthful of pancakes. "Sweet? Like what? Syrup?"  
  
"Perhaps chocolate."  
  
"Hmm. Maybe we can try that tomorrow."  
  
"Do you intend to bring me breakfast every morning?"  
  
"If you want me to."  
  
The corner of T'Pol's lips curled up into a tiny smile. "That would be acceptable."  
  
"And I thought--I thought perhaps we could meditate together as well. I found it quite--helpful."  
  
"Indeed? You appeared uncomfortable."  
  
"Well, maybe a bit awkward. But with practice. . . And I thought it might help me with--"  
  
T'Pol raised her eyebrows and waited. When he didn't finish the sentence, she said, "Your nightmares."  
  
He dropped his eyes. "I've been having them almost every night. Ever since the shuttle crash."  
  
"I am aware of that fact, although I have been able to erect mental barriers to avoid sharing them with you."  
  
"Sorry about that. But I didn't have one last night, so I thought perhaps the meditation helped."  
  
He returned to his meal, and T'Pol watched him in silence for a moment. His hands were strong, yet he used them in surprisingly tender ways. She closed her eyes and remembered how they felt when she touched them for the first time. How his hands had smelled, the softness of his skin and hair. She realized for the first time how much she had missed his gentle touch and reassuring presence. "I would like to meditate with you," she said softly.  
  
He turned around in his chair and grinned at her. "Really? I wouldn't want to cause any inconvenience."  
  
"It is not an inconvenience. I will give you a code for my door so that you may come and go as you please."  
  
The smile widened. "I'd like that."  
  
"Shall we begin now? I have finished my meal."  
  
"Certainly. Oh," he said, picking up the book he had carried in with him. "I thought you might like this book. It's by Wittgenstein, a human philosopher. It's mostly about logical frameworks for rational discussion."  
  
T'Pol took the book and read the title, "The Blue and Brown Books. You have read this book?"  
  
"Yes. Some of it I had trouble understanding, but I think I got most of it."  
  
"I would like to read it. Perhaps you would enjoy reading this book." She took a copy of Surak's Meditations from the shelf and handed it to him. "This is an English translation."  
  
"Thanks. I'll try it."  
  
She handed him a cushion, and he laid the book on the corner of the desk and settled himself on the floor without any further direction from her. She began to light the candles, and when she turned back to him she found that he was watching her with a small smile.  
  
"Why are you smiling?"  
  
"I was thinking how you're going to look when you're nine months pregnant. You'll probably be one of those women who look like they have a bowling ball under their clothes."  
  
"I am not concerned about my appearance."  
  
"I know. I just think you'll look . . . beautiful, that's all."  
  
T'Pol lit the final candle and seated herself on her cushion. She noticed that his face had reddened slightly. "Focus your attention on the flame," she said. His eyes dropped to the meditation candle, and T'Pol could sense him slowly relaxing. The tension she had felt in him during their previous session was gone now. "Clear your mind."  
  
As she intoned the familiar words of the meditation ritual, T'Pol could feel some of her own tension drain away as well. A slight, almost imperceptible ray of hope appeared in her mind. Hope for the future.  
  
++  
  
A/N: If you've read "Castaways," you know my philosophy. "There are no happy endings." So of course I'm not going to end it there. Next chapter should be up soon.  
  
++ 


	4. Time's Winged Chariot

A/N: You should know before reading this that I am a part-Irish, part- Scottish, part-British, all-American mutt.  
  
Chapter 4: Time's winged chariot  
  
++  
  
Had we but world enough, and time This coyness, lady, were no crime. . . But at my back, I always hear, Time's winged chariot hurrying near. . .  
  
-Andrew Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress"  
  
++  
  
Six months later . . .  
  
Malcolm balanced the breakfast tray on one hand while he entered his access code to T'Pol's quarters with the other. As the door opened, he looked over the tray. A bowl of fruit salad, two plates with pancakes, a small bowl filled with peanut butter, two cups of orange juice, silverware, and a chocolate sundae for T'Pol (not easy to get at this time of morning, but he had managed it by promising chef some self-defense lessons).  
  
When he entered the room, T'Pol was emerging from the head with a towel draped over her shoulders, wearing loose trousers and a short t-shirt, which left her swollen belly exposed. Malcolm grinned at the sight. T'Pol looked good pregnant, as he had known she would. She practically glowed with health.  
  
"Good morning, T'Pol," he said cheerfully.  
  
"Good morning, Malcolm." She began to dry her hair with the towel.  
  
"Sleep well?"  
  
"Yes. And you?"  
  
"I'd have slept better if I could have spent the night here with you." He set the tray down on the desk and she pulled the chair back to sit, wedging her belly in between the desk and chair.  
  
"We have discussed this. My bed is not large enough to accommodate both of us."  
  
"I could sleep on the floor. I wouldn't mind," he said, sitting down on the bed. She handed him his plate and a fork.  
  
"That is unnecessary. You have a bed in your quarters." She spread a thick layer of peanut butter on her pancakes, then topped it off with a dollop of ice cream dripping with chocolate syrup. Malcolm watched her in fascination, although he had observed this spectacle many times in the past several months.  
  
"I know that. I just like to be with you. What's wrong with that?"  
  
T'Pol did not respond. She cut herself an enormous bite of pancake and stuffed it into her mouth, dabbing her lips daintily with the napkin while she chewed. Within minutes she had cleaned her plate and started in on the rest of the sundae.  
  
Malcolm finished his pancakes and set the plate on the desk. "Are you ready to meditate?"  
  
"Soon. First I would like to have a discussion."  
  
Malcolm felt his stomach drop. It had been nearly seven months since she had announced her pregnancy, and she had yet to make a decision on where she would raise the child.  
  
"All right. What would you like to discuss?"  
  
T'Pol prized herself out of the chair and began to light the meditation candles. "Please be seated."  
  
He took his cushion and sat in his customary place on the floor, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees as she had taught him. But he was anything but relaxed. He watched her anxiously as she worked. After she had lit all of the candles, she carefully carried the tall pillar over and set it between them, then eased herself down onto her cushion.  
  
"I have decided on a name for the child."  
  
"Oh?" he said with considerable relief. "What's your idea?"  
  
"My son will be named Aidan."  
  
"What?" Malcolm spluttered. "Aidan? But that's an--"  
  
"I am aware that it is a human name. It is similar to my mother's father's name."  
  
"I was going to say it's an Irish name. Your grandfather is named Aidan?"  
  
"No, his name was Aden. As you can see, the pronunciation is similar."  
  
"I thought all Vulcan men's names started with S."  
  
"That is a common misconception."  
  
"But--but--Aidan is an Irish name," he repeated stubbornly, shaking his head.  
  
"I do not understand the significance of that statement."  
  
"The Irish and the British have been at each others' throats for centuries. I can't give my son an Irish name!"  
  
"You hate the Irish simply because you are British?"  
  
"I don't hate the Irish. It's complicated. Suffice it to say that I can't have a son called Aidan."  
  
T'Pol's lips met in a thin line. "It is the name I choose."  
  
"You don't understand."  
  
"I would like to give my son a human name so that he is more likely to be accepted on Earth. I do not believe he will be accepted on Vulcan."  
  
"You don't think--you don't think your own people will accept him?"  
  
"He will be tolerated, that is all. He will never be accepted as a full member of society."  
  
"At least Vulcan prejudice is covert. On Earth our son will most likely endure open harassment and bigotry, no matter what his name is."  
  
"Humans have proven themselves to be open-minded toward members of other species."  
  
"No, T'Pol. The humans you've met may appear open-minded and tolerant, but you've never had to sit through a family dinner at the Reed household. Bigotry is alive and well amongst average humans."  
  
"I believe there is a greater chance of him being accepted on Earth than on Vulcan. I have become comfortable around humans. It is logical to raise the child on Earth."  
  
"Damnit, T'Pol, you're not listening! You don't know how--how cruel humans can be to someone who's different."  
  
"Humans, at least, are honest regarding their emotions. Members of many species have made their homes on Earth. They are considered members of society."  
  
Malcolm's voice cranked up a notch. "They are never fully accepted! They'll always be aliens! I don't want that to happen to my son. At least on Vulcan he'll look like everyone else."  
  
"This child will be half-human. He will not look like everyone else," T'Pol said emphatically.  
  
"You said the Vulcan genes would predominate. That means he'll look Vulcan."  
  
"He will not be full Vulcan. He will not be accepted."  
  
"Well, he won't be on Earth, either!"  
  
"You are becoming angry."  
  
Malcolm forced his fists to unclench. "No, I'm not! I'm trying to have a rational discussion with you, but you're making it difficult."  
  
"I am responding calmly and logically," she said with barely perceptible heat in her voice. "You are responding with anger."  
  
"I'm not angry!!" Malcolm exploded, slamming his fist into the cushion.  
  
"Physical outbursts only cause destruction. They are not conducive to rational discussion."  
  
Malcolm felt fury building inside him, like a coiled snake in his chest. "Don't you see!?" he burst out. "Humans can be irrational! Humans lose their tempers! Do you really want your son to be on the receiving end of that?"  
  
"No, I do not. Malcolm, I do not believe you are ready to be a father."  
  
T'Pol rose gracefully to her feet, and Malcolm followed. "What?"  
  
"You are demonstrating childish behavior. I feel that your inability to control your emotions may lead to danger. Please leave before you do any harm."  
  
Malcolm's anger cooled instantly at the terrifying thought of causing harm to either T'Pol or his child. With voice breaking, he said, "No, T'Pol, please. I'll control myself. I--I'm sorry."  
  
T'Pol pointed to the door. "Please go."  
  
Malcolm looked back and forth between the blank, closed door, and T'Pol's face, which was equally blank and closed off. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut against the emotions that welled up inside him. He wanted to scream, throw something, curl up into a ball and cry, but he did none of those things. Instead he walked calmly to the door and left.  
  
Once the door had closed behind him, he allowed himself to stop and lean against the wall, pressing his forehead to the cool metal of the bulkhead.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispered again, struggling to control the urge to cry, which caused his eyes to burn and his throat to close up. "Oh, God, what have I done?"  
  
After a moment, Malcolm wiped at his damp eyes with the palms of his hands, straightened his shoulders and headed off down the corridor. He was due on duty in a few minutes. With any luck, he would be able to bury himself in the phase cannon bay and work undisturbed for most of the day.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Water. Waist-deep and rising. The lights in the shuttle flicker once, twice, and then go out completely, leaving him in near-total dark. He lunges about awkwardly in the ice-cold water, which now reaches nearly to his shoulders, searching for the hatch. His fingers close on cloth, then flesh. He pulls. In the dim light filtering in through the windows he sees the outline of T'Pol's face, pale and unmoving. He shakes her and screams her name, to no effect. Struggling to hold her face out of the water, he continues his desperate search for the hatch.  
  
His searching fingers touch a rounded metal handle. The manual release for the hatch. He claws at it clumsily, but his cold-numbed hands cannot force it to open.  
  
The water closes in over his head.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Almost a week later. . .  
  
When the hatch to the phase cannon assembly bay opened, Malcolm startled, dropped his spanner, and nearly banged his head on the top of the access tube he was lying half-in.  
  
"Sorry, didn't mean to surprise you," said Trip's cheerful voice. There was a thump and a toolbox appeared on the floor in Malcolm's field of vision. He wiggled his way out of the access tube and squinted up at the engineer.  
  
"You didn't have to come. Hess could have done this job."  
  
"I hadn't seen you in a while, so I thought I'd come on down myself. So what's the job? Hess just said something about upgrades."  
  
"I'm installing the new targeting scopes." Malcolm used his heels to push his upper body back inside the access tube and picked up his spanner.  
  
"Great. What do you want me to do?"  
  
"For starters, you can watch the control panel and tell me if the number is within plus or minus .3."  
  
"Easy enough. You're at +.2."  
  
"Good." Malcolm adjusted the scope slightly to the left and held the spanner down by his knee. "I need a microdriver."  
  
Trip's hand took the spanner. "What size?"  
  
"Two millimeters."  
  
A few seconds later, the tool was pressed into his palm. Malcolm began the delicate process of installing the tiny titanium screws which held the assembly in place.  
  
"So, how are things going?" Trip asked.  
  
"Fine, except this access tube was made for someone the size of an 8 year old girl."  
  
"I'm talking about you and T'Pol."  
  
"Oh. They're not."  
  
"They're not what?"  
  
"You asked how things are going. They're not--going."  
  
"They're not?"  
  
"No. Are you watching the monitor?"  
  
"Yes. +.4."  
  
"Damn. I need that spanner back." Malcolm tucked the tiny screws into his palm and reached out blindly for the tool.  
  
Trip held it just out of reach. "Did you break up?"  
  
"Not exactly."  
  
"Then what?" The spanner continued to hover just out of reach. Malcolm finally squirmed far enough out of the tube to see Trip's face.  
  
"I became emotional. She ordered me out. She hasn't spoken to me since."  
  
Trip pushed the spanner into Malcolm's hand. "Geez, Malcolm. I'm sorry. When was this?"  
  
Malcolm pushed himself back into the tube. "Nearly a week ago," he said while adjusting the scope slightly to the left again. "She rearranged our schedules so we're not on duty at the same time."  
  
"Ooh, cold. Have you tried talking to her?"  
  
"No, I'll let her make the first move. What does it read now?"  
  
"-.2."  
  
"Better." Malcolm pried one tiny screw from his palm and fitted it into the hole.  
  
"This is T'Pol we're talking about here, right? She's never gonna make the first move."  
  
Malcolm applied the driver to the screw and zipped it into place. "I don't want to push her. I--I think I frightened her."  
  
"How? By getting emotional?" Trip asked. "You're at -.5, by the way."  
  
"Bloody hell." Malcolm zipped out the screw he had just put in place and adjust the scope back slightly to the right. "I hit something. A pillow, I think. Is that better?"  
  
"Yep. -.2."  
  
"Good." Malcolm replaced the tiny screw and reached for the second.  
  
"What got you so het up?"  
  
"It's complicated."  
  
"You're back to +.6. What's so complicated? "  
  
"She wants to raise the child on Earth. Oh, shit," Malcolm swore as he dropped the six remaining screws while trying to pick up the spanner.  
  
"Why don't you let me get in there, Malcolm? I do this sort of thing all day long."  
  
"Fine with me." Malcolm pushed his way out in disgust. "There are six tiny screws in there someplace. I dropped them." He stood and dusted himself off while Trip lay down on his back and slid into the tube. "It's still at +.6. It needs to be adjusted to the right."  
  
"Nothing's gonna explode in here, is it? You haven't wired the scope into the main engines?"  
  
"I've learned my lesson on that."  
  
Trip chuckled. There was the slight humming sound of the spanner in operation, and the numbers dropped to precisely zero. "Is that better?"  
  
"Right on the nose."  
  
"Great. So, Earth, huh? I'm surprised. I'da thought she'd want to go back to Vulcan."  
  
"She doesn't think he'll be accepted because he isn't full Vulcan."  
  
The microdriver buzzed briefly. Malcolm watched the monitor, but the number stayed exactly at zero. "Well, she's got a point there," Trip's voice echoed from inside the tube. "The Vulcans have a habit of looking down their noses at everyone who doesn't measure up to their standards. Earth is probably a much better bet." The driver buzzed again, and again the monitor read zero.  
  
"He won't fit in. He'll be a victim of every bully in the schoolyard."  
  
"Like you were?" Trip asked over another brief burst from the driver. "How's the monitor?"  
  
"Still pegged at zero. Why do you think I learned self-defense?"  
  
"Maybe he'll do the same. Is that all you were fighting about?"  
  
"Well, it was also about the name she chose."  
  
The driver buzzed again, twice in quick succession. "She picked a name? What is it?"  
  
"Aidan," Malcolm said flatly.  
  
"Really?" There was one more burst from the driver, then Trip squirmed out of the tube. "That's a nice name. What, you don't like it?"  
  
"It's Irish!! I might as well name him Seamus, or--or Connor, for pity's sake!"  
  
"Hey, Connor is my nephew's name!" Trip sat back on his heels with a grin, tools dangling loosely from his hands.  
  
Malcolm scowled. "It's different for you, you don't have the history."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I thought you were a student of history, Commander. There have been hundreds of years of conflict between the British and the Irish."  
  
"So?" Trip wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. "Dang, it's hot in there."  
  
Malcolm handed him a shop rag. "So?!"  
  
Trip's grin widened at his outraged intonation. "Yeah. Like you said, it's history. Water under the bridge. You don't strike me as the prejudiced type, Malcolm. Why should you let ancient history affect what name you give your kid?"  
  
Malcolm shook his head. "I'm not prejudiced, but if I bring home a half- Vulcan child with an Irish name, my father will turn him out on his pointy ear."  
  
"Oh, I get it now. This is about your father."  
  
Malcolm turned his back on Trip, back to the monitor, to begin the process of setting up the controls for the scope. "It's not just about him," he said quietly.  
  
"Yes, it is. He's the one with the prejudices, not you. I thought that kind of thinking was history. What is he, some kind of purebred or something?"  
  
Malcolm continued to stare at the scope and said nothing.  
  
"He is, isn't he! My God, I thought those kind of people didn't exist anymore."  
  
Malcolm sighed. "My great-grandfather, my father's grandfather, was Irish. My father was ready to write him out of the family tree. Do you have any idea how many times I've heard over the years about how the glorious British conquered the world? For some reason, he especially hates the Irish."  
  
"Why do you care so much what he thinks?"  
  
"It's natural for a son to want his father's approval," Malcolm replied in a neutral voice.  
  
"What makes you think you're ever going to get it?"  
  
Malcolm's fingers froze on the controls. "I don't understand."  
  
"Look, Malcolm, from what I've heard, your father is an arrogant prick who has tried to control your life from day one. Do you really think that he'll ever accept T'Pol, or your child, no matter what his name is?"  
  
Shoulders dropping, Malcolm said, "You mean if I gave him a good English name like Simon or Nigel, would he welcome us with open arms? No, likely not."  
  
"Then his opinion isn't worth shit. Nothing you do is gonna change him, so why don't you just give up?"  
  
Malcolm turned to face Trip. "You're suggesting that I should accept that my father will never approve of me?" he asked in a voice made rough by emotion.  
  
Trip's expression softened. "Just don't let it control your life. Look, you care about T'Pol, right?"  
  
"Yes, of course. I--I love her."  
  
"And you want to stay with her, raise this kid with her."  
  
"Yes, absolutely."  
  
"Then why should you let a prejudiced bastard like your father ruin it for you? You've got a good thing here, Malcolm. Don't mess it up." Trip's gentle expression took the sting out of his words, but they still went directly to Malcolm's heart.  
  
"You're right," he said with a sigh. "Even though he's thousands of kilometers away, my father is still controlling my life."  
  
Trip leaned back against the phase cannon housing. "Only because you let him. You're a grown man, you should be making your own decisions."  
  
Malcolm scoffed. "Easier said than done. Stuart Reed has a way of keeping you under his thumb."  
  
"Yeah, but like you said, he's thousands of kilometers away. What's he gonna do, send you a nasty letter?"  
  
"You don't understand, Trip. You grew up in this cozy little womblike environment, where everyone loved you, and nothing bad ever happened to you. My life wasn't like that."  
  
Trip pushed himself off the housing and began picking up tools. "My life wasn't exactly a fairy tale either, Malcolm. You've never been around my dad when he was drinkin'."  
  
Malcolm blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Let's just say he was a mean drunk. My brother and I learned pretty quick to stay out of his way."  
  
"I didn't know that."  
  
"Well, now ya do."  
  
"Do you ever worry that--that you'll repeat the mistakes your parents made? That you'll turn out to be just like everything you despise about them?"  
  
Trip placed the tools carefully into the kit and stood. "I try not to think about it. Besides, my dad wasn't that bad, only when he was drinking, and that wasn't all that often."  
  
"I'm terrified that I'll treat my son the same way my father treated me. I know I have the potential to be every bit as much the bastard that my father is."  
  
"That's not gonna happen."  
  
"How do you know? I'm so much like him it scares me."  
  
"You're not him, Malcolm. You've already shown that in a lot of ways."  
  
"But I could become him. When I yelled at T'Pol, I could feel this anger building inside me. I wanted to hit something. When she said she thought I might harm her, I went cold all over. I never want to hurt her, or my child.  
  
"I know you wouldn't." Trip closed his toolbox and picked it up. "I gotta get back. Look, I'm gonna be working with T'Pol on some engineering upgrades later today. You want me to talk to her?"  
  
"I'd prefer you stay out of it. I don't want to push her farther away. If she comes back, I want it to be her own decision, not because I pressured her."  
  
"It's your call. But I'm telling ya, you gotta make the move. She's not gonna do anything."  
  
"I heard you the first time. I'll see you later, Commander."  
  
"See ya." Trip gave a little wave as he opened the hatch, and then he was gone.  
  
Malcolm sat down on the floor and rested his forehead on the heels of his hands, elbows on his knees. What Trip had said did make sense on one level, but Malcolm wasn't entirely convinced that Trip knew him well enough to make a blanket statement like that. How could Trip know for sure that Malcolm wasn't capable of harming the ones he loved, when Malcolm didn't even know it himself?  
  
With a deep sigh, he pushed himself up off the floor and turned back to the control panel. He decided he would give T'Pol one more day, then he'd go to her and apologize. If he were lucky, she'd forgive him and let him have another chance.  
  
++  
  
Trip was shoulder-deep in an access port when T'Pol showed up in engineering, right on time as usual. She climbed the stairs to the upper level, ignoring his hastily offered hand, and wrinkled her nose slightly at the tools and bits of wiring scattered around the narrow walkway.  
  
"Have you not completed the upgrades?"  
  
"I'm just finishin' up. You wanna see?"  
  
"If the upgrades are not completed, what is there to see?"  
  
"Plenty. Just let me connect this last relay." Trip reached inside the access port and finished the final connection while T'Pol folded her hands on her bulging belly and watched him patiently with the usual blank expression on her face. "There. All done."  
  
He wiped his hands on his pants, and then finished the job with a shop rag she handed him gingerly, like it might contaminate her.  
  
"The captain claims this upgrade will allow us to exceed warp 5.2."  
  
"That's what we're hopin' for." Trip edged around her on the narrow walkway and headed for the control panel. "This new antimatter injection booster should give us just the jump we need."  
  
"Hmm." T'Pol made a non-committal noise. She pulled her tricorder from her belt, which had been low-slung to pass under her greatly expanded abdomen, and began to scan the new installation. "Energy flow is .3 microns above optimal levels."  
  
"Really?" He checked the monitor with a frown. "That's within acceptable parameters. I've got my eye on it."  
  
T'Pol returned her scanner to her belt. "Show me the modifications."  
  
"Just a second." Trip programmed the computer to beep if the energy flow passed out of the acceptable range, and moved back down the walkway toward her. "We rerouted the circuitry here, and the antimatter injection booster is here." Trip pointed to the oblong chunk of metal, no longer than his forearm, which would increase the capacity of the warp engine for short bursts. "It's kinda like turbo. We're almost ready to activate it."  
  
"You built this device?"  
  
"Well, Starfleet sent the specs, but yeah, we built it."  
  
"I would like to examine the device before it is activated."  
  
"Suit yourself." He backed up against the railing and folded his arms while she worked, grinning slightly as she turned sideways on the walkway to avoid bumping the bulkhead with her stomach.  
  
Finally, he couldn't contain himself any longer. "So, uh, Malcolm says you two are having some problems."  
  
"There is no problem," T'Pol said without lifting her head from her tricorder.  
  
"He said he got mad and you booted him out."  
  
"I did not kick him. I asked him to leave."  
  
"That's what I meant. So, are you gonna let him back in?" he asked casually.  
  
"I do not know. I do not believe he is ready for fatherhood. The differential has increased to .4 microns."  
  
"Still within specs. You know he'd never hurt you, right?"  
  
"It is impossible to know that for certain.  
  
"Come on, T'Pol. You know Malcolm, he likes blowin' stuff up, but he's actually a marshmallow in the inside."  
  
T'Pol stopped scanning and turned to face Trip. "I am aware of his temperament. His emotional control is on the whole remarkable for a human. It is one of the attributes that first attracted me to him."  
  
Trip grinned. "Then are you gonna forgive him?"  
  
"He has not requested my forgiveness."  
  
"He's waiting for you to make the first move."  
  
"Indeed?" T'Pol returned to her work, head bent over the tricorder, which nearly rested on her stomach.  
  
"Look, you gotta understand, that argument? It was all about his father."  
  
"He did not mention his father."  
  
"He did to me. You don't know how messed up his family is."  
  
T'Pol took another step to her right, farther away from Trip. "Actually, Commander, I am well aware of Malcolm's relationship with his family, or rather his lack of such a relationship. I do not understand what bearing that has on his inability to keep his temper."  
  
"His dad is just a complete jerk, that's all, and when you were talking about raising the kid on Earth, he started thinking about his son being treated the way he was, and it got him all worked up."  
  
"Why is Malcolm not telling me this himself? Are you his messenger now?"  
  
'Whoa, sarcasm,' Trip thought in surprise. 'I thought Vulcans were genetically incapable of it.' "It's not like that. In fact, he wanted me to stay out of it."  
  
"You would do well to heed his advice."  
  
"Look, T'Pol, why do you wanna go to Earth anyway? Don't you wanna be near your family?  
  
"My parents do not wish me to return to Vulcan."  
  
"Oh, geez, I didn't know that. Did you tell Malcolm?"  
  
"The appropriate occasion did not present itself."  
  
"You mean you chickened out."  
  
T'Pol abruptly changed the subject. "The differential has increased to .5 microns."  
  
Trip pulled out his scanner, which now also displayed the increase in differential, and scowled at it in irritation. At that moment the computer interface began to chime in warning. "All right, fine," Trip said in disgust as he crossed to the control panel. "I'll mind my own business." He punched the control to silence the alarm. "Just one last thing: he loves you, T'Pol, with all his heart, and that's a rare thing for Malcolm. Don't throw away something precious."  
  
T'Pol nodded soberly. "I will consider your counsel, Commander."  
  
"Good." Trip turned his attention to the controls, which were blinking red and amber. He glared at them, and tapped in the sequence to vent excess plasma, hoping that would fix the problem. The lights continued to blink insistently, and now the temperature monitor was beginning to rise.  
  
"Is there a problem, Commander?" came T'Pol's calm voice. She had moved further down the walkway, scanner moving back and forth, trying to find the source of the differential.  
  
"Shouldn't be. The booster's not even on-line yet."  
  
Trip called up the schematics for the booster, and his eyes went immediately to a flashing red section located about ten meters from the interface, a section, he realized, which was directly in front of where T'Pol was standing.  
  
"T'Pol, watch ou--" Suddenly, his voice was drowned out by the roar of a massive explosion. He caught a flash of T'Pol's face, eyes wide with surprise, and then the force of the blast flung her up and back, like a rag doll, over the flimsy guardrail which was the only barrier between her and a ten meter drop to the deck below.  
  
Trip tried to force his way toward her position, but a wave of superheated air rushed at him, driving him backwards, slamming his back into the guardrail. He threw his forearms up in front of his face just as a wave of debris followed the heat, knifing through his skin like thousands of tiny needlepricks. A white-hot fragment of metal slipped through the protective shield of his arms and sliced into his left cheek just centimeters below his eye.  
  
He was barely aware of the pain through his concern for T'Pol. She had been tossed backwards, over the railing, and he could no longer see her through the clouds of smoke that had followed the explosion.  
  
"T'Pol!!" he screamed, frantically. He breathed in a lungful of smoke, which caused his throat and chest to constrict painfully. Coughing and choking, mouth and nose buried in the crook of his elbow, he fought his way to the access ladder and slid down, slipping and scrambling the last half- meter, landing awkwardly on his feet on the deck.  
  
Even before he was sure of his footing, he was stumbling blindly through the smoke toward the place where she must have landed. The ventilators kicked in with a loud, throbbing hum, but the air did not immediately clear.  
  
His foot connected with something soft on the floor and he dropped to his knees. The smoke cleared enough for him to make out T'Pol's motionless form, stretched out on her back, with a large chunk of smoldering metal debris lying across her legs, pinning her to the deck. A pool of green- black blood surrounded her head and upper body, and as the air continued to clear Trip could see more blood leaking from her ears and spurting bright green from a deep gash in her shoulder. Her eyes were closed, but they fluttered open when he touched her.  
  
"Commander . . ." she said, very weakly.  
  
"You're all right. You're gonna be all right. Just lay still." Trip looked around frantically for help, and spotted a vague figure appearing through the smoke, one arm up over his face, coughing. Rostov!  
  
"Mike, call Phlox!" Trip screamed.  
  
"Yes, sir!" The figure vanished, and Trip returned his attention to T'Pol. She was bleeding heavily from the wound on her shoulder, so he pressed both hands to the injury in an attempt to staunch the flow of bright green fluid. She shifted feebly under his hands, eyes flickering open and closed, lips moving ineffectually.  
  
"Lie still," Trip soothed. "You're going to be fine."  
  
She spoke, her voice so faint that Trip leaned in to catch the words. "Tell Malcolm--tell Malcolm I love him. . ."  
  
"No!! No!" Trip choked out desperately. "You'll tell him yourself!"  
  
Her hand wafted up and gently touched his bloody cheek. "Trip . . . please . . .Tell him I am sorry . . ."  
  
Trip released the pressure on her shoulder long enough to drag an arm across his stinging eyes. "Yes. I'll--I'll tell him."  
  
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and her hand drifted back down to rest beside her swollen belly. Her eyes fluttered shut again. Trip could just barely make out the minute rise and fall of her chest that indicated she still breathed. Goddammit, where's the doctor? Trip thought anxiously as he continued to apply pressure to T'Pol's shoulder, with brilliant emerald blood oozing through his fingers.  
  
++  
  
Continued soon . . . "There are no happy endings. There are no happy endings. There are no happy endings . . ." 


	5. Saying Goodbye to a Statue

++  
  
A/N: I seem to have confused my readers with the whole argument over the name. Sorry. Just a note of explanation (although personally I think that if you have to explain your writing then it probably wasn't very good): First of all, I wanted them to have something stupid to argue about, and secondly, I wanted to emphasize that even though his dad is a prejudiced bastard, Malcolm still really wants to please him, and is desperate to make his little "family" acceptable to him. I never meant to insinuate that Malcolm was prejudiced. He is just thinking about what his father would say.  
  
As a side note, I hope I don't offend anyone, and I'm not trying to start a debate, but I was in Northern Ireland a few years ago during "Marching season" (the month of July), and prejudice and hatred do still exist there. It may not run as deep as what name you give your child, but some people still do very strongly about it. I'm sure you could say the same thing about many places in America as well.  
  
Anyway, it's not all that important to the story. Please keep reading! And if you review, I'd much rather hear about how you liked the content of this chapter, not how you feel about racism!  
  
++  
  
Chapter 5: Saying goodbye to a statue  
  
~~~~~~~~~  
  
Water. A strong current pulls at him, drags him downstream. He fights it desperately. He has to get to her. She is drowning.  
  
He spots her, a long way off. He can only see the top of her head bobbing up and down on the waves. He kicks and strokes hard against the current, but can get no closer. He has to reach her. She needs him.  
  
He stretches out his hand, and grabs a handful of her sleeve. She sinks beneath the surface. The fabric slips between his fingers and out of his grasp. She is gone.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Trip heard the hatch to engineering open and looked up, hoping to see the doctor arriving with a medical team. Instead, Malcolm appeared through the smoke, dressed in faded sweatpants and half-buttoned shirt, hair mussed, eyes wide, face white with shock. He dropped to his knees at T'Pol's side and looked her over slowly, with confusion in his eyes.  
  
"What happened?" he asked slowly, turning his bewildered expression on Trip.  
  
"There was an accident. Phlox is on his way. Did Rostov call you?"  
  
Malcolm shook his head. "What about this debris? Shouldn't we move it?"  
  
"No, we should wait for the doctor."  
  
Malcolm looked down at T'Pol again, uncertainty mixed with fear in his eyes. He reached out a hand toward the still figure, but didn't touch her. "T'Pol?" he said softly. She didn't stir, but Trip could still see the tiny movement of her chest as she drew yet another faltering breath.  
  
"Phlox can fix it, Malcolm," Trip said quietly. "It'll be all right."  
  
"The baby . . ." Malcolm whispered, his uncomprehending eyes traveling to T'Pol's belly.  
  
"I--I don't know."  
  
At the sound of boots and voices coming from the corridor, Trip's head snapped up. The doctor's voice, calm as ever, called, "Where are you?"  
  
"Over here!" Trip called back in considerable relief. Phlox's sturdy figure, flanked by Cutler and another medic whose name Trip couldn't recall, appeared through the haze. Phlox had his bag and Cutler and the other medic were pushing a wheeled stretcher, bumping along on the uneven decking.  
  
Phlox and Cutler both dropped to their knees on either side of T'Pol. Malcolm backed out of the way to give them room to work, but Trip stayed where he was, his hands still pressed firmly to the open wound on T'Pol's shoulder.  
  
Cutler had a medical scanner in her hands, head bent over the device with hair falling into her eyes. "Pulse 170, BP 90 over 60 and falling, Doctor. She's lost a considerable amount of blood."  
  
"And the fetus?"  
  
"Pulse 210."  
  
Trip let out the breath he had been holding when he realized that Cutler's words meant that the baby was still alive.  
  
"All right, Ensign Cutler, start an I.V. Lieutenant Reed, you and Ensign Farris get ready to remove this debris. No, stay where you are, Commander." Phlox directed that last comment at Trip, who had shifted his weight in anticipation of helping. "Keep pressure on that wound."  
  
Malcolm hadn't moved, his eyes locked on T'Pol's still face, hands hanging at his side.  
  
"Lieutenant," Phlox called, a little more sharply, and Malcolm startled. "Lieutenant, help Ensign Farris move the debris." The doctor motioned toward the younger man, who was already in position by T'Pol's knee.  
  
Malcolm nodded crisply and positioned himself on the other side of the chunk of debris, near T'Pol's waist, and together the two men lifted the piece of twisted, smoldering metal up and clear of the fallen Vulcan.  
  
Immediately bright green blood began to spurt from T'Pol's left thigh, where jagged white bone protruded through skin and fabric. Phlox calmly applied pressure to the wound with a gloved hand.  
  
"Pulse 210, BP 70 over 50, continuing to fall. Fetal pulse 115," Cutler reported with a slight edge to her previously calm voice.  
  
"Stretcher," Phlox ordered. Farris scrambled around the group to lower the stretcher into position, then he crouched by T'Pol's feet to wait for the doctor's next orders.  
  
"I.V. saline wide open, Ensign Cutler. Lieutenant Reed, please lift her shoulders, Farris lift her feet, on my count."  
  
Malcolm, who appeared to have recovered from his initial shock at least enough to follow orders, slipped his arms under T'Pol's shoulders and looked up at the doctor.  
  
"One, two. . . three." Malcolm and Farris lifted together, and the entire group moved over to the stretcher, with Trip and Phlox continuing to apply pressure. Trip looked back at the spot they had just vacated, and his stomach twisted in fear at the enormous pool of dark green blood staining the deck. A swirl of red was mixed in with the green, and Trip realized for the first time that he was bleeding too. He had been aware of a sticky wetness on his left cheek, but hadn't paused to wonder what it might be.  
  
"Pulse 220, BP 60 over 35, still falling. Fetal pulse 90," came Cutler's anxious voice. She raised the I.V. bag up over her head, Malcolm and Farris took up positions at the front and back of the stretcher, and they all took off at a jog toward sickbay, trailing drops of ruby red and a stream of emerald green behind them.  
  
When they reached sickbay, Phlox ordered Farris to step in behind Trip and apply pressure to the wound on T'Pol's shoulder. Trip stepped back, uncertainly, aware of his cramping triceps, while Cutler attempted to take Malcolm's place at the back of the stretcher.  
  
"I want to go with you," Malcolm said calmly.  
  
"Stay here, Lieutenant. I can't treat her effectively if you are in the way."  
  
"I want to come," Malcolm repeated, voice taking on an edge of panic.  
  
"I still might be able to save T'Pol and the baby. Don't jeopardize that, Malcolm."  
  
As Malcolm still showed no signs of backing down, Trip wrapped his arms around the smaller man's waist and dragged him back out of the way. The medical team disappeared with T'Pol into the surgical bay.  
  
As soon as the doors closed behind them, Trip could feel the muscles in Malcolm's back and shoulders stiffen against him. He loosened his grip and Malcolm pulled away, fiercely, with a cry of frustration and pain. He flopped down into a chair with his back to Trip and leaned forward, supporting his forehead on the heels of his hands.  
  
Now that the crisis was over, the emotions that Trip had been holding at bay washed over him and he began to shiver uncontrollably. He lifted one trembling hand and saw that it was covered in dark green blood. Clasping his hands together to still them, Trip crossed to the sink and began to clean up, mechanically, not noticing or caring when the water reached scalding temperatures.  
  
++  
  
Archer entered sickbay at a run, but as soon as he passed through the doors he skidded to a halt. The doctor was nowhere in evidence, and neither was T'Pol. Rostov had just said there was an accident and that T'Pol was injured, so Archer had no idea how serious it might be.  
  
Trip and Malcolm sat side by side in chairs on the other side of sickbay, in identical postures with their elbows resting on knees and heads in hands. Malcolm didn't move when the doors opened, but Trip's head came up, giving the captain a good look at his bruised and blood-smeared face.  
  
Archer crossed to Trip. He could see that the front of the engineer's uniform was soaked with a green liquid. "What happened?"  
  
The engineer shook his head. "Accident. I don't know," he said slowly, as if it were a great effort to even form the words.  
  
"T'Pol?"  
  
"Surgery."  
  
Archer shot a glance at Malcolm, who was staring down at his green-smeared hands, looking pale and dazed. "How bad is it?"  
  
Trip shook his head again. "Bad. She--she lost a lot of blood."  
  
Archer sat down next to Trip. "What caused the accident? Could it have been sabotage?" he asked quietly.  
  
Trip's lip began to tremble, just enough for Archer to notice, and his eyes filled up. "I don't know, Cap'n. Everything was fine, and then--and then. . . I don't know." Trip's voice cracked and he lowered his head again, heels of his hands pressed against his eyes.  
  
Archer put his hand on Trip's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Trip," he said quietly. Malcolm still hadn't moved.  
  
"Let's get you cleaned up," Archer said to Trip, gesturing toward his bloody cheek and the scratches criss-crossing his forearms, but Trip shook his head mutely.  
  
At that moment, the doors to the surgery bay opened, and Cutler hurried out pushing a small cart, an isolette, which was enclosed on the top and sides with clear plexiglass. She opened the side of the plexiglass and began hooking up tubes and wires. Archer got a brief glimpse of a tiny foot, looking very still and dark against the white of the isolette. A green fluid stained the sheet and the front of Cutler's uniform, and after a moment Archer realized it was T'Pol's blood.  
  
Malcolm's head had come up, and he was staring at the isolette with a lost expression on his face. Cutler flipped a switch, and the monitor began to howl, a shrill, monotone shriek. She silenced the alarm and bent over the baby again, hands moving quickly. Archer wanted to go over and offer to help, but there was nothing he could do. He had no training, no expertise, and would only be in the way.  
  
Suddenly Malcolm rocked back in his chair, drew his knees in and flung his arms up over his head, and began to scream frantically, "No, no, NO!!!" and then "T'POL!! T'POL!!!!" Trip, who was seated closest to him, wrapped his arms around Malcolm's quivering shoulders, but the man did not even acknowledge his presence.  
  
After a moment, Malcolm's screams quieted, although he stayed curled up in a ball with his arms over his head, and Archer became aware of another sound, a thin wail coming from the isolette. The monitor began to beep in a steady rhythm. He turned his head to look, and the tiny foot, which had been so still and dark, had turned pink and was kicking wildly.  
  
Cutler closed the side of the isolette and moved to adjust the controls at one end of the device, giving Archer a better look at the baby. Its arms and legs were drawn up near its diminutive body, which was splotched from head to toe with green and a whitish waxy substance. All four matchstick- thin limbs twitched and jerked spasmodically. Thick, dark hair was plastered to its head, its eyes were scrunched shut and its mouth was open in full cry, showing a tiny pink tongue and toothless gums. The entire baby could have fit in Archer's two hands, with room to spare.  
  
Malcolm had leaned forward in his chair, and Trip moved with him, arm still wrapped around Malcolm's shoulders. With a sudden, fitful movement, Malcolm pushed Trip's arm away and returned to his fetal position in the chair. Trip leaned his elbows on his knees and watched Malcolm with a fearful, guilt-stricken expression on his bloody face, but Malcolm was too wrapped up in his grief to notice.  
  
Not knowing what else to do, Archer pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room to Cutler and the baby. Cutler nodded somberly at him, but continued her work without speaking.  
  
Archer jammed his hands in his pockets and leaned forward to get a closer look at the tiny infant, which was still screaming out its thin, indignant wail. The eyes opened briefly and Archer caught a glimpse of blue before they closed again. Through the matted black hair he could just make out the delicate points on the tips of the ears.  
  
Archer laid the tips of his fingers gently against the hard plexiglass side of the isolette, feeling the warmth from within. "Welcome to Enterprise, little one," he said softly.  
  
++  
  
When the doors to the surgical bay slid open again, emitting an exhausted- looking Phlox, Malcolm remained curled up in his chair, arms over his head. He didn't care what Phlox had to say. She was gone, he knew that already, and that was all he needed to know.  
  
He was vaguely aware of Phlox speaking softly to the captain, while pulling off gloves stained green with her blood, and then Archer put his hands over his face, briefly, and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. When both men turned his direction, Malcolm drew himself in more tightly, not wanting their scrutiny, their pity. He was aware of Trip's presence next to him, aware that Trip was crying too, while he, Malcolm, remained dry-eyed.  
  
He heard the captain say, "I think he already knows," as Phlox began to walk toward him. Malcolm heaved himself out of the chair and met him halfway, not wanting to hear the words that would confirm what he knew in his very soul.  
  
"Lieutenant--" Phlox began, but Malcolm interrupted him.  
  
"I want to see her."  
  
"I don't think that's a good idea."  
  
"I don't care. I want to see her," Malcolm repeated stubbornly. He could sense Trip's halting presence behind his left shoulder.  
  
The doctor nodded. "Very well. I need to see to the infant. Commander, if you'll take a seat on a biobed, I'll have Ensign Farris tend to your wounds."  
  
Malcolm felt Trip's hand on his shoulder, an unwelcome intrusion into his private grief. "I'm--I'm going with Malcolm," Trip said in a voice that cracked and then steadied.  
  
Phlox stared at the two of them appraisingly for a moment, then nodded again. "Your injuries aren't serious. Go ahead."  
  
The doctor moved off toward the isolette, and Malcolm stood staring at the doors to the surgical bay, blank and closed off like T'Pol's face had been, when he yelled at her, the last time they had spoken. He felt his resolve desert him, and his knees weakened and threatened to give out on him.  
  
Trip's hand tightened on his shoulder. "I'm right behind you," he said softly into Malcolm's ear. "I'm right here."  
  
Malcolm straightened, ashamed at his weakness. What would T'Pol have thought if she could see him, knees turned to jelly, giving up at just the moment when he should have been strong? By sheer force of his will he called up the meditation rituals T'Pol had taught him, and after a moment he felt strength return to his quivering muscles. A thick blanket of unnatural silence descended around him.  
  
With eyes open and back straight, Malcolm stepped forward and touched the control panel and the doors slid open. Farris, who had apparently remained behind to clean up, slipped out past them with a stricken expression on his face.  
  
T'Pol lay motionless on the surgical table, covered to the neck with a clean, white sheet. The dark green blood was gone from her face, although traces were still visible in the folds of her ears. Malcolm could see from the outline of her body under the sheet that her hands were folded across her newly flattened belly. She looked as if she were carved from stone, a statue.  
  
Malcolm stood motionless, staring at her still form. From behind him, snatches of Trip's muffled sobs and sporadic sniffles broke through his self-imposed blanket of silence. In front of him lay the woman he loved, never to breathe again, and all around him swirled her spicy scent. And in the center of it all, Malcolm stood as if he too were carved from stone, not moving, not feeling anything.  
  
Trip moved so he was standing next to Malcolm, hands swiping the wetness from his bloody face. "She wanted me to--" Trip broke off, overcome by a fresh spate of tears. He wiped his eyes again and continued. "She wanted me to tell you she loved you."  
  
"I loved her too," Malcolm said flatly. "She was the only one I ever truly loved. I wanted to spend my life with her. Her and our child. And now . . ." he trailed off, unwilling to say the words, unwilling to let go of the eerie calm that surrounded him like a protective bubble.  
  
They stood for a moment, side-by-side, Malcolm silent and motionless, Trip shivering and brushing away the tears with his palm as they slipped off his chin.  
  
After a few moments, Malcolm heard the doors open, but he didn't turn around. "Lieutenant?" said Cutler's quiet voice. "The doctor says you can see the baby now."  
  
Malcolm shook his head wordlessly. He didn't want to see the baby. He couldn't face it, couldn't open his heart one centimeter for fear that the protective bubble might pop and his emotions would be unleashed. He had to remain in the bubble; he was safe there.  
  
Trip took him firmly by the elbow and steered him toward the door, and Malcolm didn't resist, but let himself be led out of the surgical bay to the isolette. A chair appeared behind him and he sat. He had yet to look in the isolette.  
  
He could hear Archer's quiet voice, talking to Hoshi and Travis on the other side of sickbay, and then Phlox led Trip away. Malcolm could still hear his stifled sobs, overlaid with the soothing sounds of the doctor's voice as he began his work.  
  
Malcolm closed his eyes and drew the calm in around him, a cloak of silence, blocking out the noise of sickbay in action. When he felt ready, he opened his eyes and looked at his son.  
  
The tiny baby was quiet now, dressed only in a diaper, his skin clean and pink. His eyes were open, and Malcolm stared into them disbelievingly. Blue. His son's eyes were blue.  
  
++  
  
Archer left Hoshi and Travis sitting in chairs and crossed sickbay to stand beside Malcolm, who was leaned forward with his forehead resting against the plexiglass, locked in silent eye contact with the baby. Archer slipped his hand onto Malcolm's shoulder, but the man didn't move.  
  
After a moment, Malcolm said quietly, with a note of awe in his voice, "His eyes are blue."  
  
"I noticed that."  
  
"Vulcan infants always have brown eyes, even at birth."  
  
Archer had to smile at that, despite the circumstances. "He has your eyes."  
  
Malcolm continued to stare into the baby's eyes. "Yes."  
  
"What will you name him?"  
  
"Aidan."  
  
"Aidan. I like it. Aidan Reed."  
  
"It's what she wanted."  
  
Archer squeezed Malcolm's shoulder with a sad smile. "Good."  
  
Cutler bustled over and checked the monitor "Lieutenant? Would you like to hold the baby?" she asked when she had finished adjusting the controls.  
  
Malcolm finally broke the eye contact and looked up at her in obvious surprise. "Won't that hurt him?"  
  
Cutler shook her head. "Touch is good for babies."  
  
Malcolm eyed the numerous tubes and wires coming from the isolette dubiously. "I don't think I should."  
  
Archer looked around sickbay and saw that the doctor was putting away his tools and appeared to be finished working on Trip, who was pulling on a clean scrubs pants and top to replace his blood-soaked uniform. Trip was facing away from Archer, and before he pulled the shirt down Archer caught a glimpse of a large purple bruise running across the small of his back just above the waistband of his pants. His hands were bandaged, and when he turned around Archer could see that he had another bruise under a line of neat stitches along his left cheekbone.  
  
"All right, everybody. Let's clear out of here," Archer said loudly enough to carry to Hoshi and Travis, who were still sitting in chairs across sickbay. He kept his hand on Malcolm's shoulder, holding him gently but firmly in his chair. "The baby needs to rest. Malcolm, we'll see you in the morning."  
  
"Yes, Captain."  
  
"And hold that baby, Malcolm," Archer added warmly. "Not an order, just a suggestion."  
  
Malcolm turned back to stare at the baby again, and Archer took that as his cue to leave. On the way out the door, he wrapped his arm around Trip, who was still crying softly, and gave him a reassuring squeeze.  
  
"I'm goin' back to engineering," Trip said in a ragged voice.  
  
"You're injured. Go to bed."  
  
Trip shook his head stubbornly. "I gotta find out what caused that explosion, Captain. What if it was sabotage? I gotta know."  
  
Archer sighed, knowing that even if Trip went back to his quarters, he wouldn't sleep anyway. "All right. I have some calls to make. I'll join you in a couple of hours."  
  
++  
  
After everyone else left, Malcolm retreated into his protective bubble. He leaned his forehead against the plexiglass side and continued to stare at his son, noticing for the first time the delicate points on the ears that protruded through his dark hair.  
  
Phlox approached, rubbing his hands. "So, Lieutenant, are you ready to hold the baby?"  
  
"I don't want to hurt him," Malcolm said uncertainly.  
  
"Nonsense. Babies need touch. Ensign Farris, bring him a more comfortable chair."  
  
Before Malcolm could make any further protest, Cutler was urging him to stand. She led him to the sink and helped him sanitize his hands, and when he returned his hard plastic chair had been replaced with a well-padded recliner. He sat perched on the edge of the seat, a knot of fear growing in his chest, threatening to burst his bubble of calm.  
  
Phlox had the side of the isolette open and was removing some of the wires that were attached to the baby's arms and legs. Cutler gently pushed Malcolm back in the chair, and he leaned awkwardly against the cushioned backrest.  
  
"Just relax, Lieutenant. Why don't you open your shirt? Skin-to-skin contact is best."  
  
Malcolm obeyed numbly, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. When Phlox gently placed the baby stomach-down on his bare chest, Malcolm gasped aloud. "He's so warm."  
  
"Yes, Vulcan body temperature is several degrees above human average."  
  
"Oh, yes, of course. I remember . . ."  
  
Cutler draped a soft blanket over the two of them, leaving only the baby's face exposed. "Are you comfortable?"  
  
"Yes, thank you."  
  
"We'll be cleaning up the surgical bay," Phlox said. "Let us know if you need anything."  
  
"How long can I hold him?"  
  
"As long as you like." Phlox's hand rested for a moment on the infant's dark head, and then he and Cutler moved off, lowering the lights behind them.  
  
The baby snuggled in closer, his head resting on Malcolm's shoulder. His body felt tiny and fragile, his weight almost imperceptible on Malcolm's chest. The movements of the tiny ribcage were so slight that Malcolm feared he had stopped breathing. He laid his hand lightly, awkwardly, on the baby's back and could feel a slight, rhythmic motion, up and down, up and down. As long as I can feel him breathing, Malcolm thought, I know he's still alive.  
  
Despite his efforts to remain vigilant, the comfortable chair and the quiet of a darkened sickbay soon lulled Malcolm into an uneasy sleep.  
  
++  
  
Trip flung open the hatch to Engineering and froze in place at the flurry of activity within. Several junior crewmen were pushing brooms and mops, while more were on their hands and knees scrubbing at the floor with brushes or rags. Hess flew by him carrying a sizeable chunk of twisted metal that had once been part of an access panel.  
  
Trip caught Hess's arm, roughly. "What's going on here?"  
  
"Commander! Are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine." He raised his voice slightly. "What are you doing?"  
  
"We're cleaning up, sir."  
  
"Well, stop it!!" He raised his voice to a shout. "Everybody stop!!" All around him crewmembers froze, every face turned toward him with identical frightened expressions. "What the hell are you people doing?!" he continued to shout, ignoring the wide eyes and open mouths of his crew. "What's wrong with you?!"  
  
"Sir, there was blood. . ." Hess began timidly.  
  
"We have to investigate what happened!" he yelled in her face. "It might have been sabotage! You all might be destroying evidence of murder!!"  
  
Stifled gasps came from several nearby crewmen. "Murder?" asked Rostov, uncomprehendingly.  
  
Trip blinked as he suddenly realized, they didn't know. Of course they didn't. "T'Pol died," he said abruptly. "We have to figure out what happened, why the explosion happened."  
  
No one moved, they all just stared at him. "Hess, Rostov, start organizing the debris by type. Pieces of bulkhead here, conduits, relays and junction boxes over there, computer components by the wall."  
  
"Aye, sir," said Hess and Rostov together. Hess immediately began directing different crewmembers to assist her.  
  
"I'll be in my office," Trip said. He turned and stalked off, not even hearing the commotion behind him as his crew finally reacted to the news he had presented so brusquely.  
  
When he reached his office, Trip sank down in his chair and rubbed his face, hard, with his bandaged hands, then gingerly fingered the unfamiliar roughness along his left cheekbone. It didn't hurt, the doctor had seen to that, but on some level Trip wished it did. Then at least he could concentrate on the physical pain rather than this gnawing feeling of guilt that was eating up his insides.  
  
With a weary sigh, Trip opened his desktop monitor and punched up the schematics for the damaged section. He placed his fingertip on Junction A- 7, the one that had registered hot just before the explosion. He figured that was the best place to start.  
  
He called up an enlarged, more detailed schematic that included just that junction. He noticed that five of the six inputs on the junction were filled, but felt no particular concern. Even though that was a higher number than average, it should be all right. Those junction boxes were rated for 6/6 inputs, he had checked it himself just a few months ago.  
  
Trip widened the view slightly. He shifted in his chair, wincing at the returning sensation in his bruised back, and leaned forward to get a closer look. With one fingertip he traced the wiring backwards, upstream, and found six relays. Three of the relays were dimmed and had tiny red x's in the corner, and no wiring was connected to either their inputs or outputs, which meant they were no longer in use.  
  
With a tight feeling in his throat and chest that had nothing to do with smoke inhalation, Trip touched one of the active relays and traced the wiring coming from its output. About one quarter of the way to Junction A- 7, he came upon a splice, and his heart nearly stopped. A splice. More wiring had been spliced in, to reroute power around the inactive relays. 'When did that happen? And how did I miss it?' Frantically he traced downstream from the other two active relays and found two more splices. That meant that even though only five inputs were filled, as much power was flowing through that particular junction box as if there were eight inputs, which was much more than the box could handle.  
  
He had a sudden flash of recall: Weapons testing seven months ago, blown relays, not enough spare parts to replace them all. That was why he had been checking the rating on those junction boxes, to see if they could handle 6/6 inputs.  
  
Trip ran his fingers heavily through his hair, and another memory flashed through his mind, of installing the Antimatter Injection Booster. When T'Pol had arrived, he had been finishing up the wiring on Junction A-7. He had seen three empty inputs, and in his haste he had filled two of them with wiring coming from the booster, not realizing that the three filled inputs were already carrying the load of six. Oh, God, I did it, he thought.  
  
The entire tragic picture was now complete in his mind. Junction A-7 was already carrying a full load. When he had filled two more inputs, he had overloaded it. Even though the booster wasn't on-line yet, just enough power was flowing through the wiring to cause A-7 to go critical and blow.  
  
Suddenly, another, even more terrifying thought sprang to his mind: if that box hadn't blown when it did, and he had activated the booster as he had intended, he could have blown up the entire ship.  
  
Trip sat in shock, unmoving, staring at the monitor. 'I killed T'Pol,' he thought dully. 'It was my fault.' He dropped his head into his bandaged hands. 'I have to tell the captain. And Malcolm. How am I going to tell Malcolm that I killed the only woman he ever loved?'  
  
With a hand that suddenly seemed impossibly heavy, Trip engaged the comm. "Tucker to Archer."  
  
"Archer here. Did you find something?"  
  
"Yes." He wanted to say more, but his throat closed up, making speech impossible.  
  
"I'm on my way."  
  
++  
  
Despite his exhaustion, Archer almost ran to engineering. He was fairly sure Trip would have mentioned it over the comm. if he had found evidence of sabotage, so it must be something else.  
  
When he entered Trip's office, after passing through the unnatural silence of the engineering crew scurrying to and fro picking up and sorting debris, he wasn't prepared for the look on Trip's face. The engineer sat forward in his chair, elbows on his desk, fingertips rubbing roughly at his temples. His face was pale and shock was obvious in his eyes.  
  
"What is it? What happened?"  
  
"It was my fault, Cap'n."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"It was an accident. I overloaded the junction without realizing it."  
  
Archer dropped into the nearest chair. "How could this happen?"  
  
Trip just shook his head silently and resumed digging at his temples, eyes locked on his desk. "We're just lucky I didn't blow up the ship."  
  
"I want every relay, coupling, and junction inspected immediately, before we return to warp. We can't let his happen again."  
  
"I've already ordered it, sir. It'll take about two weeks."  
  
Archer sank back into his chair and wearily pinched the bridge of his nose. "We have to tell Malcolm."  
  
"I'll tell him," Trip said dully.  
  
"I can do it, if you want."  
  
Trip squared his shoulders. "No, sir. It's my problem and I need to deal with it. I'll tell him."  
  
Archer nodded. "You're right."  
  
The shoulders dropped again and uncertainty appeared in Trip's eyes. "Should I tell him now, or wait?"  
  
"Do it now, Trip. The longer you wait, the harder it will be."  
  
"I don't want to make things worse."  
  
"Things couldn't possibly be any worse."  
  
Trip stared at his desk silently for a moment. "He just showed up here after the accident, did you know that?"  
  
Archer shook his head.  
  
"No one even called him, he just knew." Trip sniffled hard and dragged the bandaged palms of his hands across his eyes. "Did you notice he wasn't crying?"  
  
"Yes, I did."  
  
Trip continued. "I was, and you were, and Cutler, and even Phlox looked upset, but Malcolm--he never showed any emotion at all, except right at the moment she--she died. He was like a statue."  
  
++  
  
To be continued 


	6. Fathers and sons

A/N: Thank you to Entgirl (see her review of this story) who cleared up the question about whether Spock was officially the first Vulcan/Human hybrid. I don't know enough about Trek Canon to know whether he was or not. And besides, I said at the beginning that this story was somewhat AU, so that's my defense if I'm wrong. :-)  
  
++  
  
Chapter 6: Fathers and sons  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
He is six years old, standing on a sandy beach, wearing only a swimming suit, with the wind raising gooseflesh on his bare arms and legs. He can see the sun glinting off the water and bleaching white the faded boards of the dock. Happy squeals and laughter surround him, but he is not happy. He is terrified. He shivers uncontrollably.  
  
"Look at me, boy," a voice demands, and he squints up into his father's face. "This is not the way I expect my son to behave."  
  
"I'm sorry, Sir," he says, automatically. He eyes the water, biting his lip.  
  
"Now get your arse in that water immediately, boy."  
  
He shakes his head, quickly. "I can't."  
  
His father laces his fingers through Malcolm's dark hair and pulls his head back, leaning in until their faces are inches apart. "You can and you will. No son of mine will behave this way."  
  
Without waiting for a response, his father wraps one strong arm around Malcolm's waist and lifts him into the air. Malcolm does not struggle. He knows the consequences of struggling will be swift and severe, so he holds himself rigid and fights the urge to panic.  
  
His father strides out onto the dock. When he reaches the end, Malcolm loses his tenuous grasp on control. "Father, please, I'm sorry!! I'll try again!! Please!!" He twists in his father's grasp and tries to wrap his arms around his father's neck.  
  
An open hand clots him on the back of the head, causing him to see stars. "Silence!"  
  
His father leans out over the end of the dock and flings Malcolm out into the water, too far away for him to reach the ladder, although he stretches his hands toward it, desperately.  
  
His thrashing stirs up the sediment at the bottom of the lake and clouds the water. He sinks below the surface, arms flailing, and pops back up again, coughing and choking. He can see, through stinging eyes, his father's back as he walks away, back down the dock. All around him boys with sunburned faces are laughing at him.  
  
He slips below the surface again.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Malcolm returned to consciousness suddenly, gasping, blinking at his unfamiliar surroundings. Slowly he remembered that he was in sickbay. The lights were dimmed and he was reclined in an easy chair, covered with a soft blanket. The baby was no longer nestled on his chest, and after a moment of frantic searching, Malcolm discovered that he was back in the isolette, still sleeping peacefully, with the monitor beeping out its reassuring rhythm. The doctor was nowhere in evidence.  
  
Malcolm tried to stand and was immediately driven back in his chair by a rush of memories and powerful emotions. With a tremendous effort he pulled the protective bubble in around himself, sat for a moment until he felt he could continue, and tried again, this time successfully, to get to his feet.  
  
He edged closer to the isolette and laid his fingers against the hard plastic side that divided him from his son, who continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had surrounded his birth.  
  
Malcolm's eyes traced the fine points on the tiny ears. Graceful, delicate, beautiful, like hers. The baby was perfect in every way. And he was Malcolm's responsibility now. Malcolm, who knew nothing about babies, had never wanted a child, would now, somehow, impossibly, be raising this child alone.  
  
Alone.  
  
Overwhelming loneliness swept over Malcolm like a tidal wave, bursting his fragile bubble of self-protection, and instantly he was overcome. Pressing his forehead against the hard, unforgiving side of the isolette, he began to cry, softly at first, and then harder, until he was sobbing in despair, shoulders heaving, whole body trembling with the failed effort to contain his emotions.  
  
She was gone. He was Alone. Completely Alone.  
  
++  
  
Trip entered sickbay to find the lights dimmed and no one in sight. He almost turned to go, thinking Malcolm had returned to his quarters to get some sleep, when his eyes fell on the corner where the isolette sat. In the dim light he could make out Malcolm's slim outline, with his back to Trip. He was leaned over, staring into the isolette, and he hadn't moved when Trip entered.  
  
Trip took a tentative step toward the shadowed figure, and noticed that Malcolm's shoulders were shaking, spasmodically. Trip quietly closed the distance between them, and after a moment, hesitantly laid his hand on Malcolm's shoulder. He felt the muscles bunch up and tighten under his palm.  
  
"Malcolm. . ."  
  
"I never told her I loved her."  
  
"She knew."  
  
"I can't believe I let a such a stupid argument come between us. How could I have been so concerned about what his name would be?"  
  
"You were just thinking about making your father happy. There's no shame in that."  
  
Malcolm's head swung back and forth slowly. "I'm just like him. The one person I hate the most. The one I never wanted to be."  
  
Everything Trip was going to say went out the window as he focused on doing what he did best, fixing the problem at hand. "That's not true, Malcolm. You aren't like him."  
  
"How would you know?" Malcolm said bitterly.  
  
"I know you."  
  
"Do you? Do you really?"  
  
"Yes, I do." Trip voice was almost pleading now, begging Malcolm to believe him.  
  
"No, you don't, because I don't let anyone know me."  
  
"I do know you."  
  
"What do you know? Did you know my father threw me out of the house when I was seventeen? Did you know he--he almost drowned me once?  
  
Trip didn't know what to say. After a moment, Malcolm started talking again. "I was six years old. My father was determined that I should learn how to swim. In front of all the other boys, he threw we into the deepest part of the swimming area and simply walked away. I was screaming and thrashing, terrified I was going to drown. Finally, when I had been under the water for over two minutes, he dove in and pulled me out."  
  
Malcolm paused in his story, and Trip almost interrupted to say that Malcolm would never do anything like that to his son, but Malcolm continued, quietly, never making eye contact, almost like he was talking to himself.  
  
"When I told my mother what happened, she said, 'you shouldn't have provoked him.' That's when I knew I was on my own. My mother wasn't going to protect me. I just remember standing there soaking wet, shivering, watching my mother walk away. I felt so alone. I ran into the locker room and hid in a locker and cried until I couldn't cry anymore. I had never cried like that since, up until a few months ago. I never let anyone get close enough to really hurt me."  
  
"Until T'Pol."  
  
"Until. . . T'Pol."  
  
"I'm so sorry, Malcolm." The words were on the end of Trip's tongue, but he couldn't force them out, couldn't make himself say what he knew would even further dismantle his friend's already shattered existence.  
  
Malcolm laid a hand on the side of the isolette. "What if he dies?"  
  
"He's not going to die."  
  
"But what if he does?" Malcolm asked forlornly. "I'll be left with nothing."  
  
"Not nothing. You've got all of us."  
  
"I'm sorry, Trip, but that doesn't mean a whole lot right now." Malcolm straightened and wiped his face with his palms. He turned swiftly, brushed by Trip without actually touching him, and strode out, never looking back. Trip's face twisted as he watched him go, and his shoulders slumped with the weight of his guilt.  
  
After the doors had closed, Trip finally turned back to the isolette. He hadn't gotten to see the baby yet, and now for some reason he was afraid to look.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he walked forward two steps and peered down at the infant, so tiny and helpless. He looked perfect. Trip had seen several newborn babies before, and they always looked like freshly skinned rabbits. This one was beautiful, a tiny replica of T'Pol, but with Malcolm's eyes.  
  
"Hey, little man," he said softly. "Welcome to Enterprise. You look an awful lot like your mama, kiddo. I don't know if that's good or bad right now." Trip paused and just stared for a minute.  
  
"I'm so sorry for what happened to your mama," he continued, in a voice that quavered and cracked. "You see, it was all my fault. I hope--I hope you can forgive me someday."  
  
Trip heard the doors to the surgical bay swish open and he stepped back hurriedly, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He ducked his head and turned slightly to see Cutler emerging from the bay carrying a medical tricorder and some other equipment. Struck by sudden embarrassment, he nodded at her and walked out of sickbay.  
  
++  
  
"Captain's log, June 20, 2152. Commander Tucker's investigation into the cause of the explosion indicates that an accidental overload of a junction box may be to blame. I've ordered an immediate inspection of all wiring throughout the ship, to make sure there aren't any other surprises waiting for us. It'll be at least two weeks before we are able to go to warp again. Admiral Forrest has ordered Enterprise to return to Earth for repairs and inspection as soon as possible.  
  
"In the meantime, we have a memorial to plan. I've already contacted Vulcan High Command. I've decided to let Malcolm decide whether T'Pol should be buried in space or returned to Vulcan."  
  
Archer stopped and closed his eyes. "Computer, pause." He rubbed the spot above his eyes where a massive headache was forming. The Vulcan Commander he had spoken to had been adamant about T'Pol's body being returned to Vulcan where it could be cremated and properly interred, but Archer felt that the choice should be left up to Malcolm, as her bondmate and the father of her child.  
  
The doorchime chirped. "Come," Archer called absently, still rubbing his forehead. The door opened, and then there was silence. After a moment, Archer lifted his head and saw that Malcolm was standing in front of his desk, hands folded behind his back, gaze fixed on a spot on the wall. His hair was unkempt, his clothes were rumpled, and his eyes were shot through and rimmed with red.  
  
"Malcolm, please sit down," Archer said. 'Before you fall down,' his mind added silently. "Did Trip talk to you?"  
  
A flash of confusion crossed Malcolm's face. "He came to sickbay, but he didn't tell me anything. Why?"  
  
Archer took a deep breath. "We found the cause of the explosion."  
  
"What was it?"  
  
"An accident. A junction box was overloaded and blew. Trip feels horrible."  
  
"Why?" Malcolm demanded.  
  
"He was the one who overloaded the box when he was rerouting power around some blown relays. He didn't realize it until later, when he looked at the schematics."  
  
Malcolm's gaze returned to the far wall and his face hardened. "I see."  
  
"He wanted to tell you himself."  
  
"Then why didn't he?"  
  
"I--I don't know. This is very hard for all of us."  
  
Malcolm stared at the wall silently. Archer expected tears, some sort of outburst, but Malcolm sat quietly, his face hard and expressionless, like stone.  
  
"Do you know what you want to do?"  
  
"T'Pol wanted to raise the baby on Earth."  
  
"Is that what you want?"  
  
The mask slipped, just a little. "I--I don't know what I want. Captain, I don't think I can do this alone."  
  
"What about your family?"  
  
"You've talked to my parents. They won't be any help."  
  
"Your sister?"  
  
"I could call her, but she's busy with her own life. She doesn't have time to help me raise a baby."  
  
Archer circled the desk and sat in the chair next to Malcolm. "I was raised by a single father, you know. It wasn't easy, but we both survived."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I talked to Admiral Forrest about the possibility of raising the child here, on Enterprise, but he said it was against regulations."  
  
"You asked him that?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Forrest has ordered us back to Earth for repairs and inspection. It should take about three months to reach it. If you make another decision before we get there, fine."  
  
"All right."  
  
"Malcolm, I need to know what you want to do about the burial. The High Command would like T'Pol's body returned to Vulcan for cremation."  
  
Malcolm shook his head quickly. "No, she didn't want to go there. She didn't feel comfortable there anymore."  
  
"We can bury her in space, if you prefer."  
  
"That's what she would have wanted."  
  
"I'll tell the High Command it was my decision, if they question it."  
  
"Thank you, Captain."  
  
Archer pushed himself out of the chair and returned to the other side of the desk. "I need to make an announcement to the crew about what's happened. Would you like to stay?"  
  
Malcolm nodded, so Archer shuffled through the PADDs on his desk until he found the one with the announcement that he had planned. "Does the baby have a middle name?" he asked, looking up at Malcolm.  
  
Malcolm shook his head. "I haven't thought about that yet."  
  
Taking another deep breath, Archer thumbed the comm. "All hands, this is the captain. I have an announcement to make. As some of you already know, there was an accident in engineering last night at approximately 22:15. Sub-Commander T'Pol was gravely injured in that accident. Dr. Phlox and his team did everything they could to try to save her, but she was too badly injured and--and she died.  
  
"Dr. Phlox was able to safely deliver her baby. Aidan Reed was born at 22:50 last night, weighing in at 1.3 kilograms, 30 centimeters long. He's in good health, but Dr. Phlox says he's not ready for visitors yet, so please try to avoid sickbay unless absolutely necessary. I'll inform you when it's all right to visit.  
  
"There will be a memorial service for Sub-Commander T'Pol Thursday morning at 0800. All personnel are given leave to attend. Archer out."  
  
When Archer finished the announcement, Malcolm continued to sit in silence, with a far-away look in his eyes. "Malcolm?"  
  
The far-away look abruptly disappeared. "Yes, sir?"  
  
"Why don't you go get some sleep?"  
  
Malcolm pushed himself out the chair and stood. "I need to get back to sickbay."  
  
"Phlox and Cutler can take care of the baby for a while. You need to rest."  
  
"I'll think about it, sir. Am I dismissed?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
Malcolm nodded curtly, turned and left without another word. Archer stared after him, with concern building in his chest. Malcolm had always been a closed book as far as his captain was concerned, but now he was more like a locked safe, completely closed off, unknowable, unreachable. Archer had no idea how to break through that hard exterior to the place where Malcolm kept his emotions hidden.  
  
Heaving a deep melancholic sigh, Archer turned back to his log entry. What he had written so far seemed completely inadequate to describe the ups and downs of the previous few hours, but he didn't have the words to make it better. Maybe the right words didn't exist.  
  
++  
  
Instead of going to his quarters as the captain had advised, Malcolm returned to sickbay, hoping desperately that Trip had left and he wouldn't have to talk to him. Malcolm didn't think he could handle the weight of Trip's guilt right now on top of everything else.  
  
When he entered sickbay, it was still dark and quiet, and Trip was gone. Malcolm crossed to the isolette and took up his previous position with his forehead resting against the plexiglass, staring down at the baby, who was still fast asleep.  
  
Although outwardly he was still and calm, a frenzied muddle of questions was darting through his brain, too quickly for him to even process properly. There were so many decisions to be made, and he would have to make them all alone. There was no one else to rely on, no one to turn to. And there was no margin of error in this situation. The slightest miscalculation or lack of knowledge on his part could lead to serious harm or even death for the baby. The weight of responsibility was almost unbearable. Malcolm had always considered himself to be resourceful, able to make difficult decisions if needed, but now he realized he was completely out of his depth. A tiny, 1.3 kilogram bundle had thrown his neatly ordered world into complete chaos.  
  
After several minutes, he heard the doors to the surgical bay open and then Phlox was beside him, checking the monitors and adjusting the tubes and wires. He looked up and Phlox gave him a wan smile, a mere shadow of his usual cheerful grin.  
  
"Ah, Lieutenant, you've returned. Did you have a nice rest?"  
  
"I suppose. What time is it?"  
  
"Nearly 0700. You slept for about three hours. Not enough, I should think. You should try to sleep while the baby does."  
  
"When does he need to eat?"  
  
"I imagine he'll be hungry when he wakes up. We can try an oral feeding then."  
  
"But how often should he eat?"  
  
"Newborns usually eat every two to three hours." Phlox moved off to check another monitor, and Malcolm followed.  
  
"How much should he eat at each feeding?"  
  
"As much as he wants."  
  
"Then how will I know how much he wants?"  
  
"He'll let you know when he's had enough." Phlox chuckled and moved to adjust the thermostat on the isolette. Malcolm trailed after him.  
  
"But what if I don't give him enough? How do I know if he's hungry?"  
  
"If he's trying to eat his fists, or turns toward your hand when you touch his cheek, he's probably hungry."  
  
"Will he cry if he gets hungry?"  
  
"Most likely." Apparently satisfied at the temperature of the isolette, Phlox crossed to a cupboard and took out a blanket and set of scrubs, with Malcolm on his heels.  
  
"But he could cry for other reasons as well, so how will I know what he wants?"  
  
"You'll figure it out, Lieutenant." Phlox dropped the scrubs on one biobed, opened the blanket and draped it over another.  
  
"I need to know now. I have to make sure I'm doing everything correctly."  
  
"There will be plenty of time for you to learn." Phlox took hold of the hem of Malcolm's shirt and Malcolm lifted his arms unconsciously. The shirt was whipped over his head and replaced with the scrubs top. "I'll let you take care of the pants."  
  
Malcolm looked down at himself and realized for the first time that his trousers were stained with dark green blood. T'Pol's blood. With a fleeting, uncontrollable shiver, he untied the drawstring and kicked them off. Phlox held out the scrubs pants and Malcolm took them automatically, still focused on the thousands of questions running through his mind. "What does he eat? Can he drink milk?"  
  
"He should drink special infant formula. I've programmed the beverage dispenser to produce it."  
  
"What about bathing? How am I to bathe him?" Malcolm asked as he tied the string on the pants.  
  
"He'll take sponge baths at first, and then he can have tub baths after his umbilical has healed."  
  
"How often should I bathe him? And how do I bathe him, to prevent him from drowning?"  
  
Phlox pulled back the blanket. "Lieutenant, I would be happy to give you all the information you want, with detailed demonstrations, later, after you've had some sleep." He gestured toward the biobed.  
  
Malcolm shook his head vehemently. "I have to stay awake. He might need me."  
  
"Ensign Cutler and I are here. We can take care of any need that arises."  
  
"I need to learn how to feed him."  
  
"I promise to awaken you when he is ready for feeding."  
  
Malcolm eyed the biobed in indecision. He could feel the exhaustion of a nearly sleepless night pulling at the back of his mind. It was difficult to maintain control over his emotions when he was this tired. Sleep was logical at this point. So why did he feel an irrational fear at the thought of closing his eyes and surrendering to the darkness?  
  
"I'll just lie down for a little while. I probably won't be able to sleep anyway," Malcolm decided aloud.  
  
"Very well."  
  
Malcolm climbed into the bed and Phlox pulled the blanket up over him. "Sleep well, Lieutenant."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Water. Freezing cold, up to his chest and rising. Near total dark. He lunges about clumsily in the ice-cold water, searching desperately for the hatch with numb, useless fingers.  
  
At first all he can hear is the roar of the water, then he becomes aware of another sound. A thin wail, a newborn's insistent shriek. He turns his head from side to side, trying to locate the source of the cry.  
  
"Where are you?" he tries to scream, but his voice is drowned out, washed away.  
  
His search becomes more desperate. He stumbles to and fro on the listing deck, slogging through water nearly up to his neck, screaming "Where are you?!!"  
  
The cry fades away.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Author's note: Can you tell I'm a parent? I remember very clearly asking these same types of questions while we were in the hospital after my son was born. And picturing Malcolm waking up and "frantically searching" for the baby gave me the giggles, because it is exactly what my husband would have done when our son was a newborn! 


	7. Sweet Sorrow

Chapter 7: Sweet Sorrow  
  
Malcolm awoke to find the lights on and sickbay abuzz with activity. Ensign Cutler was holding the baby, who was now wrapped in a blanket, up close to her shoulder and walking back and forth, jiggling him up and down and whispering "shhhhhh" softly into his ear. It seemed to be working because his cries soon quieted. Malcolm watched her silently and wondered how she knew to do that.  
  
Phlox hurried by with a small bottle half-full of a white liquid. "Ah, Lieutenant, you've awakened just in time. It's feeding time."  
  
Malcolm rubbed the sleep from his eyes, shook off the nightmare along with the blanket, and stood, uncertainly, steadying himself with a hand on the biobed.  
  
"Come over here and sit in the recliner," Phlox said, patting the easy chair with one hand and gesturing to Malcolm with the other.  
  
Malcolm shook his head. "I don't know how to feed a baby."  
  
"Then you'll learn. It's really very simple."  
  
"I'll just watch this time."  
  
"Nonsense. You wanted to learn how to care for the baby, and feeding is an important part of that. Come on." Phlox patted the chair again, and this time Malcolm crossed to it reluctantly and sat. Cutler approached with a big smile on her face. She was still jiggling the baby up and down, and Malcolm found himself wondering if it was necessary to do that all the time when one was holding a baby.  
  
"Lean back, Lieutenant, and get comfortable," she said. Malcolm shifted awkwardly in the chair.  
  
"How should I hold him?"  
  
"Put your arms out."  
  
Malcolm complied, stiffly, and Cutler leaned over him and carefully shifted the baby from her arms to his. Malcolm sat up very straight and held his arms out slightly from his body to avoid crushing the baby. When the tiny body squirmed slightly, Malcolm tightened his grip and looked up at Cutler anxiously.  
  
"Just relax, Lieutenant," she said. "Here, this will help." She put a pillow under Malcolm's elbow and gently pushed his arm down so it was resting against the pillow. "There, that's better."  
  
"Are you ready, Lieutenant?" Phlox asked, and Malcolm nodded, hesitantly. Phlox moved in front of the chair and held out the bottle. Malcolm just looked at it.  
  
"I don't have any free hands," he said, brows furrowed.  
  
"Try holding the baby in just one arm."  
  
Malcolm shifted, gracelessly, until the baby's head was nestled in the crook of his left elbow and his left hand was supporting the baby's hips. Then he carefully worked his right hand free to take the bottle.  
  
"Ah, much better. You see, you're a natural at this," Phlox beamed. Malcolm didn't return the smile. He didn't think he was a natural at this. In fact, he was sure he was a complete and utter disaster when it came to infant care.  
  
"Now, touch his cheek with the nipple, just lightly."  
  
"His cheek? Don't I want it to go into his mouth?"  
  
"Just be patient. When you touch his cheek, he should turn toward the nipple and open his mouth. Then you can put the nipple into his mouth."  
  
Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, especially because both Phlox and Cutler were leaning over him with encouraging smiles on their faces, Malcolm touched the baby's cheek with the nipple. Just as Phlox had predicted, the tiny head turned desperately toward the nipple, and his mouth opened wide. Malcolm jammed the nipple into the gaping maw, and the baby began to suck noisily, his blue eyes very wide.  
  
Malcolm looked up at Phlox with a surprised little smile on his face. "I did it."  
  
Phlox returned the grin. "Yes, you did. Excellent!"  
  
"How much will he eat?"  
  
"As much as he wants."  
  
"How will I know when he's done?"  
  
"You'll know. When he stops sucking and loses interest, he's probably done."  
  
"All right." Malcolm settled back in the chair just a little, the surprised smile still on his lips.  
  
"Well, I don't think you need me for a while. When he's finished, I'll show you how to burp him. Ensign, why don't you go rest now? I'll call you if I need you."  
  
"Yes, Doctor. Lieutenant, you look great. I'll see you later."  
  
Malcolm nodded distractedly at her and returned his attention to the baby, who was still sucking greedily. A trickle of milk oozed out of the corner of the baby's mouth and dripped down to his chin, which Malcolm noticed for the first time had a tiny cleft in it, like his did.  
  
The rest of the baby's face: cheekbones, mouth, ears, even delicately upswept eyebrows, looked so much like T'Pol that it took Malcolm's breath away. He had told himself that he couldn't open his heart, even a crack, that he had to protect himself from the emotions that threatened to swallow him up, but now, looking into the face of his son, suddenly that self- protection didn't seem so important anymore.  
  
The baby had worked one hand free from the blanket that cocooned him, and latched onto Malcolm's finger, and Malcolm suddenly felt tears spring to his eyes. One tear slipped down his cheek, but he had no free hands to wipe it away so it dripped silently off his chin and was absorbed into the blanket. Another drop quickly followed, and then another. Whereas before he had cried out of loneliness and despair, his tears now were bittersweet, filled with a heart-rending combination of sorrow and joy.  
  
"Aidan," Malcolm whispered. "Hello, Aidan. I'm your daddy."  
  
++  
  
Three months later . . .  
  
Malcolm threw a quick glance at the chronometer as he stuffed a handful of diapers into his shoulderbag. Five minutes left. He spotted Aidan's stuffed "Pooh bear," which had been a gift from Hoshi, lying half under the bed. He scooped it up and tossed it into the bag.  
  
Malcolm picked up his photos from off his nightstand. He had chosen one of the entire crew in particular to take with them because he and T'Pol were standing side-by-side, and T'Pol even had a tiny smile on her face. He carefully slipped the photos into the outside pocket of his suitcase, which lay open on the floor.  
  
He took one last look over the contents of the suitcase. T'Pol's copy of Surak's Meditations, along with a small candle, lay on top, and he tucked them down into a side pocket for safe-keeping.  
  
Malcolm carefully snapped the suitcase shut and stood it up. It seemed pitifully small to contain everything he owned in the universe. He had given most of T'Pol's things away to various crewmembers, for them to remember her by, although he had kept a few things for Aidan, so that he could know his mother.  
  
With a sigh, Malcolm stood and turned back to the bed, and his downcast expression melted into a contented smile. Just enough time for one last diaper change, he thought. He bent over Aidan, who was lying on the bed kicking his legs vigorously, and tickled him under the chin. He was rewarded with a toothless grin and a trickle of spit-up.  
  
"Oops." Malcolm dug a burp cloth out of the shoulderbag and wiped the spit- up away. "I'll bet we'll need that cloth again later, don't you think?" he said with a goofy grin at the baby, who giggled and cooed in reply. Malcolm dropped the cloth onto the bed, then quickly changed the diaper, which was only wet.  
  
He was just finishing sealing the tapes when there was a quiet knock at the door. He reached up over Aidan's head and tapped the comm. "Come in," he said while snapping up the legs of the baby's sleeper. He tossed the cloth onto his shoulder, then gently picked up the baby and turned around to see Hoshi standing in the doorway smiling at him.  
  
"Hi, Malcolm. I didn't want to ring the bell in case Aidan was sleeping."  
  
"Hello, Hoshi. No, he's wide awake."  
  
"Are you ready to go?"  
  
"Just about." Balancing the baby with one arm, Malcolm scooped up the shoulderbag and put the strap over his other shoulder.  
  
"I can carry your suitcase."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Hoshi stepped forward, took the handle of the suitcase and began to pull it out the door. Malcolm followed, but hesitated in the doorway. This would likely be the last time he would ever set foot in this room, he realized. His last few moments as a member of the crew of Enterprise.  
  
He looked around the room for a moment, but realized that he felt no special attachment to it. Blank gray walls, stripped down single bunk, empty desk. There was nothing in this room that he would miss. He smiled down at his infant son, who was now snuggled against his shoulder, and kissed him on the tip of one pointed ear.  
  
"Computer, lights off." The room dimmed, and Malcolm stepped out into the corridor after Hoshi, who was waiting for him with a sad smile.  
  
"Ready?"  
  
He nodded at her and they proceeded down the corridor in silence. Malcolm's thoughts turned, as they often did these days, to the future, which still seemed very insecure and uncertain. The familiar anxiety settled in his stomach. He still didn't know where he was going to live, or how he would support himself and Aidan. These questions would have to be answered, and soon. And he would have to answer them himself, as he could expect no one else to help him. One of the things that had attracted him to the military was the chain of command. Someone else gave the orders and he followed them. It was safer that way. Now that safety net was to be taken away, and Malcolm felt he was walking a very narrow tightrope.  
  
When they reached the docking port, Malcolm wasn't surprised to see the captain, Travis, and Trip waiting for him. Archer and Mayweather nodded and smiled at him. Trip nodded a second later, and his smile was somewhat less enthusiastic. When Malcolm returned the smile, Trip looked away and took a step back so that he was behind the captain's shoulder. Malcolm stifled a sigh. So it's still like that, is it? He thought.  
  
"There's my favorite crewmember!" Archer said jovially. He bent over Aidan and tickled him on the neck, which elicited a giggle. "Can I take him?"  
  
"Of course." Malcolm passed over the baby, and Archer took him, jiggling him up and down slightly. "Careful, he just ate."  
  
Malcolm noticed out of the corner of his eye that Trip was watching the baby with a wistful expression on his face, but he didn't ask to hold him, so Malcolm didn't offer.  
  
Hoshi and Travis both gathered around Archer and the baby, leaving Malcolm and Trip both standing back away from the group. Malcolm tried again to catch Trip's eye, but was unsuccessful. From a few steps away, Trip was still looking over Archer's shoulder, his eyebrows drawn together, chewing the inside of his lip.  
  
Watching Trip, Malcolm felt a deep pang of regret. They had never managed to patch things up between them, mainly because Trip had avoided almost all contact. His few visits had been awkward and short. He had never asked to hold the baby, and the one time Malcolm had offered, Trip had refused. Malcolm knew why, of course. Guilt. It practically rolled off Trip in waves, which Malcolm found almost overwhelming. After three months, Malcolm had nearly managed to shake the deep depression he had experienced after T'Pol's death, but every time Trip was around, the darkness crashed in around him again. Finally Malcolm had decided it wasn't worth it. He couldn't fix what was wrong with Trip. Trip would have to do it himself. So Malcolm had washed his hands of all responsibility for Trip's emotional condition, and tried to move on. He felt he had to, for Aidan's sake. But it still hurt.  
  
A deep clunking heralded the arrival of the transport. The lights on the control panel glowed red and then green, and Travis stepped forward and opened the airlock.  
  
Malcolm was still watching his friends coo over his baby, so he was surprised to hear a familiar voice. "Malcolm!!"  
  
He looked up and saw Maddie, hurrying toward him with her arms out. Still in shock, he opened his arms. She ran into them and he engulfed her in a hug.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he asked, pushing her back to arm's length to look at her.  
  
"I couldn't let my brother come home and not be here to greet him, could I?"  
  
Malcolm looked up at Archer, who was grinning from ear to ear. Archer winked at him, and Malcolm nodded his thanks.  
  
"Now I hear you're bringing home a little addition. Where is he?" Maddie scanned the group, and when her gaze fell on the baby, her eyes lit up. "Oh, Malcolm, he's beautiful."  
  
A small grin tugged at Malcolm's mouth. "Well, I think so."  
  
Maddie crossed to Archer, who willingly handed over the baby. She took him awkwardly, like she didn't know where to put her hands. "He's so light. I haven't held a baby in a long time. Look at those ears! Oh, how marvelous!"  
  
Malcolm's grin widened to see his very single, very childless sister so excited over a baby. Maddie had always said she never wanted children of her own, and privately she had told Malcolm she thought most babies were incredibly ugly.  
  
"Malcolm, you really must come to San Francisco to live so I can be near this adorable baby."  
  
"I haven't decided where we're going to live yet."  
  
"Oh, but you must! It's beautiful there, and the weather will remind you of home. But you've been there before, haven't you? Of course. That's where the Academy is." She bent over the baby again, one finger tracing his ear. "Oh, he's beautiful. I'm so jealous!" Hoshi leaned in with her and both women cooed at Aidan until he giggled in delight.  
  
"All right, folks, the transport's waiting," said Archer. "Malcolm, we're sorry to lose you."  
  
Malcolm held out his hand, but Archer ignored it and instead pulled him in for a long hug. "Write to us, ok?" he said, and Malcolm nodded against his shoulder. Next Travis and Hoshi came over and Malcolm embraced each of them.  
  
"I hope we can see you again soon," Hoshi said. "We'll be at Jupiter Station for a couple of weeks, you know. And they're talking about giving us some leave before we head out again. Maybe we can visit, help you get settled."  
  
"I'd like that."  
  
"Let us know where you end up," said Travis.  
  
"Send lots of pictures," Archer put in.  
  
"I will."  
  
Although he was involved in conversation with Hoshi, Travis and the captain, Malcolm was peripherally aware that Trip was talking to Aidan, who was still in Maddie's arms. "Goodbye, little man," he heard Trip say, softly. "Don't forget your Uncle Trip."  
  
Trip looked up and their eyes met, briefly, and before Trip's gaze flicked away again, Malcolm got a glimpse of the pain in his eyes. He felt his heart soften, and he knew he couldn't leave things like this between them. He took a step toward Trip, but Trip backed up, hands in his pockets, head down.  
  
"Trip, can I talk to you?" he asked quietly.  
  
Trip's head popped up, eyes wary, and then he shrugged. "I guess so."  
  
Malcolm put his hand on Trip's back and steered him around the corner. Trip continued to chew the inside of his lip, eyes looking everywhere but at Malcolm.  
  
"What do you want to talk about?"  
  
"I wanted to say that--I don't blame you for what happened."  
  
"I know you don't. I blame myself," Trip said dully.  
  
"Trip, I forgive you."  
  
"What--what do you mean?"  
  
"I forgive you. It's over and done with. No more guilt."  
  
"You forgive me?" There was a tiny spark in Trip's eye now.  
  
"Yes. I'm not going to let unforgiveness and bitterness ruin my life and my relationships like my father has."  
  
Trip's lip quirked up into a half-smile. "I told ya you weren't like him."  
  
"I've decided you're right. I've also decided something else."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Aidan's middle name will be Charles, after you."  
  
The grin spread. "Really? Aidan Charles Reed. Sounds good."  
  
Trip grabbed Malcolm in an enthusiastic hug, which Malcolm returned wholeheartedly. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and he was light as a feather.  
  
When they parted, Trip sniffled and swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. Malcolm patted him on the shoulder. "Goodbye, Uncle Trip."  
  
Trip shook his head. "No, not goodbye. See you later . . . Daddy."  
  
Malcolm chuckled softly. "All right. See you later." At that moment, he heard a loud cry coming from around the corner, a cry that quickly worked itself up into a wail.  
  
"Er, Malcolm?" came Maddie's voice.  
  
"Coming," he called, then added to Trip, "duty calls."  
  
He rounded the corner and took Aidan, who was now red-faced and screaming, from Maddie's arms, put him up on his shoulder, and gently patted his back. The baby quieted immediately. Malcolm looked up to see his crewmates and sister staring at him with identical grins on their faces.  
  
"Looks like you've got the magic touch, Malcolm," Archer said.  
  
Malcolm gave him an embarrassed smile. "Well, everyone, I'll see you all later."  
  
With his son in his arms, he hoisted the duffel up over his shoulder and turned away from his friends, toward the shuttle, toward the future. He still didn't know exactly what would happen when he stepped off the ship, but he knew he wasn't alone, and that fact in itself made the journey bearable.  
  
++  
  
A/N: OK, maybe there are happy endings. At least bittersweet endings, anyway. Just the epilogue left to go. 


	8. Epilogue: Letters from home

Chapter 8: Epilogue: Letters to home  
  
Dear friends  
  
Hello to all. I can't believe it's been almost nine months since Aidan and I left Enterprise! He is growing so fast I can hardly remember what he looked like as a newborn. He's already more "boy" than "baby". Just started walking a couple of weeks ago, and now he's practically running around the flat. I've had to babyproof everything, of course.  
  
We've finally found a place to settle down, a little two-bedroom flat in San Francisco. I've got a position teaching Self-Defence and weapons' training at Star Fleet Academy, which is working out very well. We live only two blocks from the campus, so I can walk to work. Aidan goes to daycare on campus as well, so I get to visit him between classes.  
  
I wish I could ship you a case of the new "phasers" that have just come out. You may have heard that I invented them, which is not entirely correct, although I did head the design team. They are the most accurate, lightweight, and powerful weapon I have ever used, if I do say so myself!  
  
Aidan says about a dozen words already, one of which is "Trip." (well, it sounds more like "ip") He loves to look at the picture I put up in his room of the Enterprise crew. He points to each person and wants me to name them. Just last week I mentioned "Captain Archer" to a visitor, and next thing I knew, Aidan had brought in the picture of the crew and was pointing to the Captain!  
  
Since we live very close to the Vulcan Embassy in San Francisco, I've arranged for Aidan to have twice weekly lessons in Vulcan language and culture. I go along with him and learn the Vulcan language so I can help him practice. Hoshi, you'd be proud of me. I can carry on a fairly comprehensive conversation in Vulcan now, and V'Nel (Aidan's teacher) says my accent is quite good. "Wani ra Yakana ro futisha" (which means, "I speak Vulcan.") Aidan understands most of what I say in Vulcan, and he can say three Vulcan words, one of which is "meki," the Vulcan equivalent of "daddy."  
  
Through my contacts with the Embassy, I've tried several times to contact T'Pol's family, but they have so far refused to speak to me. I'm determined to keep trying, however. I want Aidan to know his grandparents and be comfortable with his dual heritage.  
  
I hope this letter finds you all well, and that Trip is staying out of trouble. I miss you all, of course, although I am happy with my life right now. Aidan is a complete delight, and I can't imagine how I ever got along without him. I hope you all can see him soon, the next time you return to Earth. I'm enclosing some pictures, so you can see how much he favors T'Pol. His personality is much like hers as well, although he does smile and laugh occasionally, especially when tickled!  
  
See you later,  
  
Malcolm 


End file.
